


A World Apart

by Leaper



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Switched Roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 110,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaper/pseuds/Leaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The story of Kurt Hummel, his gay Warbler friend, and the closeted jock bully. Only... not quite the way you may remember. What if two major characters had switched roles? Encompasses Season 2 from "Never Been Kissed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Been Kissed 1: I Am So Inspired By You

Kurt Hummel was in another world. Maybe even another universe.

As his footsteps echoed through the hallowed hall of Dalton Academy, he couldn't help looking about him in awe. Every inch of its wood-paneled halls and its fine art screamed "class," class certainly missing from McKinley High's linoleum and garish posters. _People actually live like this,_ Kurt thought. _People actually get to spend a good portion of their lives in a place like this._

He quickly shut his open mouth, reminding himself why he was there: as a spy. And he certainly couldn't do that effectively if he was staring and gaping like a fish. He already wasn't sure his suit could pass muster, nor if his story of being a new student would work out. It was best, he decided, if he spied on the Warblers and just got out as quickly as he could.

It suddenly occurred to him that no one even knew he was there; he'd stormed out of the guys' planning session pretty quickly. But then, what would happen to him, really, if he got caught? A brief flash of an image—him being brainwashed into loving those uniforms of theirs—came into his mind, but he dismissed it with a shake of the head.

Besides which, this little jaunt was taking his mind off of other problems, namely two certain Neanderthal football players. They had always been... unpleasant to all the members of the Glee Club. He'd long since resigned himself to the idea that it came with the territory. But in the past month or so, the bullying had begun falling particularly hard on him, especially from one specific individual. Kurt winced just thinking of the falls he'd taken, of the time spent in bathrooms cleaning up, of taunts, of a dozen little things that were quickly adding up. And it was getting worse; he hadn't thought that possible...

Kurt shook his head. _Okay,_ he thought, _focus. No sense trying to escape for a while if you're just going to dwell on what you're trying to escape from._

Kurt started up a marble (marble!) staircase, looking up to the second floor with a slight frown. Was this the right way? Who knew what was up there. It could be rooms, if Dalton was a boarding school; his Internet research on the subject had been vague at best and contradictory at worst. Still, if the Warblers were up there, that's where he had to go. But how far could he explore without sticking out...?

Suddenly, the hallways seemed to come to life. Where there were only a few wandering students, now scads of boys in blue blazers were running or jogging in a particular direction. _Okay, this was too big to ignore._ He had to take a risk and find out what was going on. Footsteps were descending the staircase behind him; this was as good a person as any to ask. "Excuse me..." he started as he turned.

Kurt froze as he came face-to-face with... a stomach. Or was it a sternum? Kurt couldn't tell. Slowly, his eyes rose... and rose... until they finally met those of the teenager in front of him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, bigger than anyone he'd seen yet at Dalton, with short brown hair and, at least at the moment, a half-confused, half-curious look on his face. Even in his standard-issue Dalton uniform, he looked uncomfortably like one of the football players he'd come to Dalton to forget for a few hours. _I suppose Dalton would have sports too. Oh, well, no place is perfect._

"Yes...?" the other boy asked, an eyebrow crooked in questioning. Kurt quickly shook himself out of his thoughts. _Remember the mission._

"Ah, sorry. I'm, uh, new here, and I was wondering... what's all the excitement about?" He waved at the hall, where students were still charging towards their unknown destination.

"Oh, that's for the Warblers. They're our glee club. They're giving kind of an impromptu performance." His face crooked in a bit of a half smile. "They're kind of popular around here. No idea why, though. Their lead isn't very good." Abruptly, he stuck out a hand towards Kurt. "Oh, welcome, by the way. I'm Dave."

"Kurt." He was mildly disturbed to see how much his hand disappeared into Dave's as they shook. "So... the Warblers, huh?"

"Yeah. Want to give 'em a listen?"

Kurt tried to make his shrug casual. "Sure, why not?"

"Great! It's this way." Dave put a friendly arm around Kurt's shoulders as he led him down the staircase. The contact was rather... warmer than Kurt had expected. It was probably because he wasn't used to contact from another boy that didn't result in him smelling floor wax. He let himself be guided down the hall, towards a room where, indeed, the slowly trickling stream of Daltonites was gathering.

Few details of the room really attracted Kurt's notice, what with the sea of milling blue blazers blocking most of his view. Dave gently carved a path through the crowd with his sheer size alone, Kurt following in the wake before it closed up again. As the two made their way to the front of the audience, Kurt saw the small group standing apart at the back. They were, of course, wearing identical blazers (and here Kurt was uncomfortably conscious of how much his _did not_ match the rest), but gathered in a tight, intimate group. _The Warblers_ , he concluded. The bronze skinned young man at the front was looking about the crowd with a slight edge of nervousness. As his gaze passed Kurt, the edge disappeared with a small smile. Kurt frowned; what was that reaction about?

"Is there some sort of introduction, or...?" Kurt whispered to Dave.

"Nah. Everyone knows the Warblers. I think they're just gonna begin." Dave cast an appraising look at Kurt that made the smaller boy feel a tad nervous. "Hope you enjoy."

"Thanks, I..." He was interrupted by the Warblers suddenly starting to snap their fingers in time.

_Whoa, oooh oooh oohhhhhh...  
For the longest time..._

_Ah._ Kurt smiled a little, remembering the time his father accidentally tuned into this song in the car. He sang along loudly and proudly, only to visibly wilt after it was over when the DJ reminded them that this was the oldies station. _A capella song for an a capella group. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess._

_Whoa, oooh oohhhhhh...  
For the longest..._

Kurt was watching the group so intensely waiting for the lead to separate from them that he jumped when a voice started singing practically right by his ear.

_If you said goodbye to me tonight,  
I would still have music left to write..._

Dave stepped forward from the audience, his rich baritone ringing through the room. For the second time that day, Kurt's jaw dropped. He could tell that the arrangement was perfectly suited for Dave's range, and the Warbler was taking full advantage. _God... He's really good._ Kurt shook his head ruefully; when had he decided that would be a surprise to him? He felt a little foolish for a judgment he didn't even know he was making.

_That's where you found me,_   
_When you put your arms around me-_   
_I haven't been there for the longest time..._

As the rest of the Warblers provided their pitch-perfect backup, Dave was working the room, as any good performer would. Kurt couldn't help smiling at the joy on Dave's face, at the way one of the Warblers in the background threw back his head whenever he hit that high note in the chorus. _They all love this. And they're so proud of what they can do. And they're able to share that joy without judgment._ He tried not to think of the way it was at McKinley.

_I'm that voice you're hearing in the hall  
And the greatest miracle of all..._

As Kurt watched the performance, a vague thought occurred to him. Was Dave singing towards Kurt's side of the room a little more than the others, casting his gaze towards them a little more than the rest of the room? Kurt let himself look about a little; no, nothing unusual around. Odd.

_I had second thoughts at the start_   
_I said to myself_   
_Hold on to your heart..._

Kurt didn't even notice he, along with a good portion of the audience, was swaying along with the music. Some small part of him was already preparing his report to Rachel and the rest, a report that would surely put them all a little on edge. But he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. All he saw was blue blazer, all he heard was Dave's voice and Billy Joel's words. All thoughts of the bullying ways of Chris Strando and Blaine Anderson seemed so far away...

_I want you so bad,_   
_I think you ought to know that_   
_I intend to hold you for the longest time..._

* * *

"So," Kurt said with an arched eyebrow, "'their lead isn't very good,' huh?"

Two Dalton Academy Warblers sitting at Kurt's table immediately turned to the third, who was already sinking in his seat, as if trying to burrow away. "That again?" groaned Wes Montgomery, not entirely bad naturedly. "Will you stop?" He turned back to Kurt. "As head of the Council, I apologize for this lummox. We're trying to make him stop putting himself down like that."

"And he's not just fishing for compliments, either," David Thompson added, rolling his eyes. "He actually believes he's mediocre."

The two had walked up to Kurt and introduced themselves immediately after "The Longest Time" ended, with eyes and expressions that definitely said "busted." Though Kurt had never intended, nor particularly wanted, to be a spy, he couldn't help but feel chagrin as he sat at the coffee shop not long after the performance at Dalton. He took pride in at least trying to do well at whatever he did, and there wasn't much question that he'd been pretty bad at this.

"I can't believe that." Kurt cast his eyes in Dave's direction. "If we're going to be friends, I have to tell you that I'm only going to say this once. If you make me repeat myself, I'll slap you. You. Are a wonderful singer. Got it?"

Dave's lips twisted into a grin. "Yes sir," he answered, giving a small mock salute.

David (whose first complete sentence to Kurt had been "it's lucky Dave already goes by that name, or everything would be even more confusing than it already is") rolled his eyes again. " _Thank_ you, Kurt. Maybe you'll get through to him, and we'll finally stop hearing all the 'oh, I need more rehearsal' and 'oh, someone else should have a solo for once.' Sheesh."

The Warblers laughed at that-even Dave. Kurt joined them. "I hope so. You guys are all good."

"And that's why you decided to spy on us, is it?" Wes prodded, bringing the dreaded "S" word back into the conversation.

"You aren't from Carmel, are you?" Dave asked as he sipped at his coffee (much too plain and much too black for Kurt's taste). "This seems like something Goolsby would come up with."

"But he wouldn't be so sloppy," Wes remarked with a grin. "He'd have sent in someone with an imitation uniform accurate down to the last stitch, with at least four hidden recording devices. Maybe some ipecac to pour into our water bottles."

"That's if he could bear to think of us as any sort of threat," David cut in.

"No, no. I'm from McKinley High, in Lima."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "You're a long way from home, then."

Kurt swallowed. "I guess I am." He was never sure what impulse drove the question out of him, but the fact remained, it was there. "So... is Dalton some kind of... gay school?" He'd vaguely heard of such a thing, in New York City (another reason to love the place!), and the idea of one being here in Ohio was at once wonderful and utterly hilarious.

All three Dalton students chuckled at him, which caused Kurt to flush a little. "No, actually," Wes replied with a smile. "There are actually fewer gay guys at Dalton than you'd think."

Dave opened his mouth to speak, but David cut in. "In fact, only one of the three of us is gay." He smiled a mildly odd smile. "Wanna guess which?"

Kurt shifted a little uncomfortably. He was about to say something about making snap judgments and stereotyping, but Wes and David's grins were so eager that he couldn't refuse. "Okay... Ummm..." He looked from Wes to David and back, his eyes roving. Clothes as an indicator was out of the question, of course. Both seemed equally well-groomed, and he hadn't caught any glances other than the norm. Kurt shook his head and shrugged; it looked like it was flying leap time. "Uh... Wes?"

The named boy laughed. "No, sorry, thanks for playing!"

"Kurt, I'm surprised and disappointed in you," David added.

Kurt gave a sheepish smile at David. "Well, I didn't have a lot to go on, and you didn't give me much sign tha..."

"It's obvious you're buying into heteronormative stereotypes," David continued, his tone becoming professorial (or perhaps "I read this phrase on the Internet and I'm pretending I use it every day so I can sound smart"). "What does poor Dave have to do, pinch your butt?"

Kurt's eyes widened. He turned to Dave, who was already blushing. "You?" he burst out before he could stop himself. _Good going, Hummel_ , he groaned inwardly. _Way to deepen your humiliation._ Dave, for his part, only gave that half-grin of his as he finger-waved. "Well... I mean, as I was going to say... You didn't give me much to go on, so I didn't want to assume, and..."

"It's okay, really," Dave said quietly. "I mean, it's not like I wear a sandwich board everywhere saying 'Gay Man Here'."

"Would be funny, though," David interrupted.

"But I'm not ashamed either. All the Warblers know, and they're cool with it. Hell, I'm out to the entire school."

Kurt contemplated this for a moment as he stifled the pang of jealousy that shot through him. "Anyone ever give you trouble over it?"

Dave shrugged. "Not really. Dalton has a zero tolerance policy against that kind of thing."

Kurt's eyes snapped open. "Really?"

Wes nodded. "Bullying, harassment... None of it is allowed. And the administration takes it seriously. Very seriously."

"I mean, it's not perfect, of course, so I guess it's also good that I'm kind of big," Dave continued. "At least I look like I can take care of myself."

"Glad to see someone can," Kurt muttered under his breath, swishing his drink around in its cup.

A shadow passed over Dave's face, though it quickly set into one of concern. He turned to his fellow Warblers. "Hey, guys, could you give me and Kurt a minute here?"

Wes and David shared a glance. "We can give you five," Wes grinned. "Ten. However many you want."

"Shut up," Dave hissed. Then, louder: "I just want to talk to him alone for a bit."

"Sure, Dave, sure. Wes and I will be... uh... admiring the cars in the parking lot. Or something." The two scurried out, taking _subtly_ long and anticipatory looks over their shoulders as they left.

Dave rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back to Kurt, who was still finding his drink utterly fascinating. "Hey..." No response. "Hey." Kurt finally looked up. "Something on your mind?" No answer. "Look, I know I may look like some big dumb jock, but between you and me... I really don't like most sports all that much. I love hockey, and I play a little when I can, but that's about it. And I know what it's like to be... uh... bullied."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "People bullied _you_? What were they, suicidal?"

Dave shrugged. "I didn't always look like this. I used to be fat, bad skin, the works. I started working out _because_ I wanted to fight back. So don't think I won't understand. Hell, maybe I still won't be able to get what you're going through. But try me. You look like you at least need to talk."

Kurt almost slammed his cup onto the table, blinking back tears. "I... It's just so hard sometimes, you know?" he whispered hoarsely. "Every day..."

Dave nodded. "Every fucking day. It's like you can't escape it. You wake up every morning and just want to crawl back into bed, because you know what's gonna happen. But you go anyway, and it happens, and you're wondering if it's ever gonna end."

Kurt's head nearly dislocated from nodding. "I'm gay," he finally burst out. "I'm the only one out at my school."

"Oh." Dave sucked in a breath. " _Oh_."

"This one guy in particular... Blaine Anderson... It'd be bad enough if he were just shoving me every day, but some of the things he says... I know I shouldn't let it get to me, but... It just gets too much sometimes..." He picked up a napkin and rubbed at his face, for once not caring about the redness it'd leave behind on his skin. "I don't know how much more I..." He stopped abruptly; a warmth had surrounded his free hand. He looked down to the rather startling sight of one of Dave's hands placed over his.

"Hey. Don't say that." Dave's voice also brought Kurt up short; it was soft, far gentler than anything he'd ever heard from a body that big. "You... you're braver than you think."

Kurt laughed a little, though it felt more like a gurgle from a choked throat. "Stop it."

"No, really. You said you're out at your school, right?" Kurt nodded; Dave smiled. "See? You've got a lot of courage. And you didn't even have a Grandpa Murray to teach it to you."

Kurt's lips quirked into a genuine grin; it felt good at that moment. "And you do, I assume."

"Yeah. I'm fucking lucky to have someone like him in my life. He always tells me, 'Stand strong, Davey. You're a good and worthwhile person. Be proud of that.' And I always do what Grandpa Murray tells me. Or you pay for it, believe me." Kurt laughed. "But I think you can too. Stand strong, I mean. Don't be afraid of those fuckers at your school. Get in their face. Make them leave you alone." Kurt opened his mouth, but Dave continued. "And I don't mean punch 'em in the nuts or anything, though that couldn't hurt. I mean, be proud of yourself. Be aggressive. Show 'em that you won't let them define you. Show 'em what it means to be a fabulously gay guy in Ohio." His gaze dropped to the table; he seemed almost as startled as Kurt to see where his hand had gone. He quickly pulled it back, much to Kurt's disappointment. "Sorry. I kinda get carried away sometimes."

"It's okay." _More than okay._ He turned over Dave's words in his mind. "Stand strong, huh?"

"Yeah. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? They beat you up, but they were doing that anyway. Best case, they start laying off you. Either way, you show everyone that Kurt Hummel isn't a guy who'll be pushed around."

Kurt sighed, looking out the bay windows. On the other side, Wes and David were indeed checking out the cars in the parking lot, only they occasionally shot the oddest looks back at their table. "I'll think about it," he finally said.

Dave smiled, finishing his coffee. "So... who is this Blaine Anderson guy, anyway?"


	2. Never Been Kissed 2: A Kiss is Just a Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read once that some author (George R.R. Martin?) thinks that fanfiction is not a good way for an aspiring writer to practice, comparing it to paint by numbers. Perhaps that's true, especially with a 'fic like this that hews so close to canon events. However, I do know that this is the most I've stuck to a personal writing project in ages, so maybe this can still be a spark for something good (and even more original!).
> 
> With all that said, the confrontation (and a bit more)...

WHO IS BLAINE ANDERSON?  
A SHOCKING EXPOSE of McKinley's GOLDEN BOY  
A JBI EXCLUSIVE

"This is JBI speaking, bringing you the latest in cold hard truth, complete fabrications, and everything in between. Today, I ask the vital question: who is Blaine Anderson?

"You probably know his name. You may think you know who he is: 4.0 student. Popular McKinley Titans wide receiver. All around BMOC. But do you really? If you ask McKinley's populace about him, the answers you get depend on who you ask."

[A group of Cheerios]

"Ohmigod, he's sooo cute."

"And charming!"

"He's a perfect gentleman."

"And so sweet!"

"When he dated my sister, he always brought flowers and opened doors for her."

"He has got the nicest smile."

[A group of Titans athletes]

"Blaine is the MAN!"

"He's all right in my book!"

"He's, like, dated most of the hot girls in this school. And banged them all!"

"And they still like him, even after he broke up with them! That is SICK!"

[Here Jacob's vaunted investigative reporting failed him. If he'd bothered to dig deeper, he'd have discovered that while the dating statement was true, Blaine had never actually "banged" a single one of his girlfriends. Then again, Blaine went to a lot of trouble to keep this particular fact obscure.]

"The dude definitely knows how to party."

"Like the time he... uh... This is gonna be on the 'net, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then we watched chick movies, drank tea, and played Scrabble. But it was the BEST party EVER!"

[Teachers]

"Blaine is a fine student. Very attentive."

"Very polite young man. The kind who'll open doors for you if you have your arms full."

"Studious. Insightful. Respectful. Always ready with an answer. Wish more of my students were like him."

"I see him as the unholy spawn of Will Schuester and a Cabbage Patch doll."

"He'll go far. His potential and future are limitless."

[Back to JBI]

"High praise for a single student. But what happens when you get below a certain rung on the vicious mountain that is the McKinley social ladder? What happens to the view of our perfect Mr. Anderson then? Listen to these stories, whose faces I've obscured to protect their anonymity. And their internal organs."

[A shadow, with the caption "AV Club Member"]

"Blaine Anderson made my life a living hell. My equipment was always moving itself or failing at the worst times. My locker got filled with used coffee grounds. Rumors went around that my sister and I still slept in the same bed. And all because I smiled at the girl he was dating at the time. _Once_."

[A shadow, with the caption "Glee Club Member"]

"I don't know where he gets his sterling reputation. He obviously cannot recognize talent, or he wouldn't pour slushies on said talent. He's even targeted me, which just proves how tasteless he is. He'll get a footnote in my autobiography. If that."

"Can I touch your hair?"

[Back to JBI]

"And there are many more horror stories, ones I can't tell you because frankly, they're too disgusting even for me. God help you if you were once powerful and popular, then fall from grace. The rumors of what he does to such losers are terrible to even contemplate.

[This was definitely true, as Finn "That was for making fun of my eyebrows in fifth grade" Hudson could tell you. Or Puck. One afternoon, he'd stormed into Glee rehearsal still dripping flavored ice, declaring "I can't believe I never noticed what a douche he is!" "Welcome to my world," Kurt had sighed.]

"Even this reporter has had run-ins with Mr. Anderson, one involving several containers of Vaseline, purple glitter, and a rubber chicken.

[He shudders.]

"I asked Blaine Anderson for comment, and this is what he said:"

[Blaine appears on the screen in his typical clothing: letterman jacket over polo shirt and jeans. His wild, curly hair almost touches his collar. He looks directly at the camera with a dazzling smile.]

"Sorry, but I don't comment on people who like to make up stories while they're safe behind anonymity... or the Internet. If they have a problem, they can take it up with me directly. But personally, I think they're inventing these tales as a desperate cry for help. I hope they get the attention they need."

[Back to JBI]

"So it seems our perfect Blaine Anderson has two faces: charming and debonair to the popular and powerful, and cold, calculating, and cruel to the downtrodden. But will anything be done? Will his reputation suffer for these new revelations? Will anyone care?"

[No.]

* * *

Kurt felt like a bit of a friend-slut. He'd never given out his cell phone number to someone on first meeting them before, not even Mercedes. But Dave? He had it before Kurt left Westerville. Perhaps it was the joy of finally meeting a gay male like himself. Perhaps it was the prospect of finally having someone in his life who could really understand what he was going through from experience. Perhaps it was... Well, perhaps it could be a lot of things, some of which he wasn't ready to think about. But the fact remained. Dave. Number.

It was the possession of said number by said Warbler that had Kurt completely oblivious to the outside world. He walked slowly down the McKinley halls, grinning at his cell phone screen, and at the freshly sent text that stared back.

"Stand strong."

Suddenly, the screen disappeared from his sight, as the cell phone flipped out of his hands into the air, crashing to the floor. "Whoops," Blaine Anderson sneered as he strode by.

Kurt snatched the phone from the ground, checking it for damage. "Stand strong" still stretched across the screen. Kurt's spine stiffened. "Hey!" he shouted, running after Anderson.

Blaine was busying himself with his gym bag when Kurt stormed into the otherwise empty locker room. "Can I help you, young lady?" the football player asked mildly.

"What the hell is your problem?"

"Other than the fact that a friendless fag who thinks he's somebody is sharing my oxygen? Nothing."

Kurt's face reddened, but not with humiliation for once. "You wouldn't know a real friend if one came up to you and slapped that smirk off your face."

"Well, you must be lonely if you're stalking me like this."

"Like I'd ever stalk someone like you," Kurt huffed. "Oh, that's right, gay people are promiscuous and have no standards. Well, let me tell you something: you're not my type."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I don't crush on cruel little trolls who'll have beer bellies by the time they're thirty." Kurt leaned forward menacingly, his hot breath almost tickling Blaine's face. "You know, I can see right through you."

"Can you, now?" Blaine croaked.

"Yeah, I do. You put up this pretense of being the perfect everything, but you're no more perfect than anyone else. You're weak, like the rest of us. Scared, like the rest of us. You're nothing but a confused little boy who can't handle how extraordinarily ordinary you are..."

* * *

If anyone had been hanging around the boys' locker room at around the time of this confrontation (and no one was), they would've been treated to the somewhat odd sight of Blaine Anderson stumbling out, his eyes moist, as if he were close to tears. They would've seen him wipe his face, look around wildly, then run away, seemingly in a random direction.

As puzzling as this sight would've been, they probably would've been even more confused when they saw Kurt Hummel leave just a minute later, pale and eyes wide, as if he'd just been punched in the stomach. They would've seen him look searchingly down both branches of the hallways, swaying a little unsteadily on his feet. They would've seen him touch his lips, briefly, look down at his phone, then leave.

Such a witness would likely have wondered just what happened in that locker room. Turns out, both boys involved were wondering the same things themselves.

* * *

_You lost it. You lost it. You lost it..._ That's what Blaine Anderson was thinking.

"Can you pass the gravy, please, Mom?" That's what he said.

"Certainly, sweetie." Elaine Anderson passed on the gravy boat with a graceful gesture. "So how was school?"

 _I lost it. I lost control. It's all slipping away. It's..._ "Fine." _Until Hummel tells everyone what you did. Then you'll lose everything. Your friends. Your rep. Every bit of control you have. Then you'll have nothing._

"Grades keeping up?" Roger Anderson asked. It was an off-handed question, as if he already knew the answer.

"Same as usual, sir."

Blaine's father smiled. "Marvelous. I think you already guaranteed your spot at Yale last year, but at this rate..." He shook his head, his smile growing wider. "I have to admit, you were right, son."

Blaine straightened; he struggled to think of the last time he'd heard anything close to those words from his dad. He couldn't. "About...?"

"About attending public school. I was skeptical, but so far, your judgment is proving completely correct. You're flourishing, Blaine. You're accomplishing everything I'd ever hoped from you, and more. I'm proud of you."

"Both of us are," his mother cut in.

"I…" Blaine struggled to keep his composure, the tears out of his eyes. "I… Thanks, Dad… Mom. That means a lot to me." _Everything. It means everything._

But the metaphorical (though it didn't feel metaphorical) cold water splashed in his face as it also reminded him of just how much he had to lose. And it was all Hummel's fault.

Hummel...

Later that evening, he tried to do homework, but half his time was being spent refreshing Kurt Hummel's Facebook page. Its status and wall hadn't changed since the previous night, but Blaine was just waiting for those new words to appear. First, that idiotic Glee Club would see it, naturally. And it'd spread quickly from there; Rachel Berry was nothing if not talkative. Of course, there'd be plenty of people who wouldn't believe it, at least not at first. But once the seed was planted, it would be hard, if not impossible, to uproot. And if his exes decided to compare notes...

Blaine slammed his history textbook shut and buried his face in his hands. _Do not cry. Do NOT cry. It's not going to help anything, and you're not a fucking kid anymore._ He turned and glanced wearily at his bedside clock; almost 11 pm. He had no idea when Hummel went to bed (and really, why should he care?), but no update so far was probably good news. Maybe he was too scared to say anything, afraid of the consequences if he did blab. Blaine's mouth drew tight. _He should be._

* * *

The next morning, he stepped into McKinley High with his stomach rebelling against his oatmeal and toast. First stop was his locker. Azimio Adams and Chris were talking and laughing. Both greeted him with their usual grins and high fives. So far, so good. A group of Cheerios passed by, two of his exes among them. They all gave him little waves and shy smiles. Homeroom, then his first few classes, came and went without a single word, or even a passing, doubtful glance.

By lunch, Blaine was significantly relaxed; he started his climb up a set of stairs with an almost cheerful kick. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Hummel all day. Obviously the fairy was a lot smarter than he'd thought. Maybe he needed just a small reminder later of what Blaine was capable of, but otherwise it seemed that...

"I'm so glad you're here." Blaine stopped. That was Hummel's voice; there was no mistaking the pitch, the almost velvet smoothness. "I'm sorry to have called you down here like this, but I didn't know where else to turn."

"I told you, it's okay," a deeper, rumbling voice responded. That one was new; Blaine was at least acquainted with practically every student at McKinley, but this voice he couldn't place. "I just didn't have time to change. It's a little weird being stared at this much."

It was at that moment Hummel came into view, descending the same stairs Blaine was on. He was being followed by a hulking teenager in a blue blazer with red piping - a definite stranger to McKinley. "Don't worry, they won't bite immed..." Hummel turned, and stopped dead. The boy behind him also stopped, puzzled. Kurt and Blaine stared at each other for a long moment.

"That him?" the blazer wearing stranger asked quietly.

Hummel swallowed. "Anderson."

"Hummel." The tension in Blaine's stomach squeezed at him. "Maybe you could get out of the way. Those of us with a future have classes to get to."

"We need to talk," Hummel burst out, sounding awfully rehearsed, yet still not quite ready for his lines. "In private."

Blaine forced a derisive laugh. "What would we have to talk about? And I'd have to ask you to put on a chastity belt before I'd go anywhere alone with _you_."

"You should listen to him," the stranger said mildly. "Or else we can just talk about it right here, right now. In front of everybody."

Blaine stiffened, looking about wildly. So far, a few passing students stared at the beefy stranger, but none seemed to be taking an interest in the conversation. Yet. He nodded, trying to keep the bile out of his throat. "Fine. We'll talk. Lead on, MacDuff."

Hummel descended the stairs, shifting his body as far into the banister as he could as he passed by Blaine, the stranger following; the latter gave Blaine an appraising look which didn't seem especially friendly. Blaine straightened the collar of his letterman jacket as he joined the two on a short walk to a nearby empty classroom.

As soon as the door swung shut, he leaned against it casually, coincidentally covering the window with his body. "So you wanted to talk? Talk."

Hummel sucked in a breath. "We need to discuss what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday? I don't really know what you're talking about. Unless it's about that date I made with Jolene Harris, but I don't think you're interested in..."

"You kissed me," Hummel said bluntly.

Blaine's mouth twitched. "You sure you didn't dream it, Hummel? Because it's creepy enough being in the same room as you and your boy toy without a whip and a chair; I didn't need to know I'm in your wet dreams too."

Here the stranger stepped in. "Look, I know this is scary shit. But you gotta know that you're not alone."

"Not alone," Blaine repeated coldly. "Really. And what would you know about my life, private school boy? You know, I recognize that monkey suit of yours. I almost went to Dalton. But then I figured I'd do better dealing with real people, instead of a bunch of Stepford guys. And no girls? I've always wondered about..."

"Please, Anderson, listen to him!" A startling note of almost-begging was creeping into Hummel's tone. "He… _we_ know what you're going through."

Blaine laughed; he wanted to laugh until he cried. "You… You actually think that, don't you? Shit, you're more deluded than I thought."

"I'm gay," the stranger said flatly. It was so matter-of-fact that Blaine gaped in astonishment. "I guess I should say, I'm gay… too. So I'm guessing we know a little more about you than you think. Kurt wants to help you. And I'm willing to pitch in. It's okay to be scared; so was I. So was Kurt…"

Blaine faked a loud yawn. "Thanks for the bedtime story… Or should I say, fairy tale? But you two are boring the _fuck_ out of me."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Kurt said insistently. "You shouldn't be beating yourself up or hiding who you are…"

"Because you're just the shining example of the greatest life, huh?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, will you shut up and listen to him?" the stranger burst out, his face reddening. "He's trying to fucking help you!"

"No. No!" Blaine leaped forward, getting into the stranger's face. He looked ready to shove him, but the size difference got through even Blaine's rage-addled mind. "I'm tired of listening to you. I don't need your help. I don't want your help. My life is going according to plan." With that apparent non sequitur, he turned towards Kurt, who stiffened at once under the gaze. The stranger visibly tensed, but Blaine was too far gone to care. "And you! You better not go around telling lies about me, or you'll pay. You hear me? You'll fucking pay!"

Blaine stormed out of the room, an old mantra still running through his mind as he charged mindlessly through the halls: do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry…

* * *

"He's not coming out anytime soon," Dave snorted.

Kurt rubbed his forehead. "I don't think your outburst near the end helped much."

Dave's shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry, Kurt, I know I blew it. I've just never done this kind of thing before. And the guy is such a douche. I've met way too many of his kind in my life. And after what he's done to you... I'm surprised you still want to help him."

"Well, helping him will help me too." Kurt sighed. "And... I kind of get where he's coming from."

"You never bullied anyone just because you were scared." A small smile slipped onto Dave's face. "Unless there's a dark side of you I don't know about."

Kurt laughed. "Yeah, a dark side that secretly loves beer and monster trucks. Seriously, though, even I haven't been out my entire life. There was a time when just the idea scared me more than anything else. I can't force him to face that."

"Well, maybe you should!" Kurt spun towards Dave, jaw dropped; the Warbler was red-faced again, his fists clenched, with a dangerously raging gleam in his eyes. "I mean, his kind just has to be the top fucking dog. If you knocked him off his pedestal, the rest of his so-called friends would probably be too busy with him to bother you…"

Kurt gasped in anger. "David Karofsky! I can't believe you're actually saying this! I thought you of all people would…!"

Something about Kurt's words, or his face, or his anger, must have gotten through, as Dave's entire body immediately relaxed, his face twisting into an expression of self-flagellating regret. "I'm… God, you're right, you're right… I'm sorry..." He rubbed at his face with both hands. "I just… It made me so fucking mad seeing him talk to you like that when you're just trying to help him, a guy who's been bullying you…" Dave sighed. "You're a way better man than I am, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt gently touched Dave's arm. "No better than a man who drove two hours to help someone he met just a few days ago."

Dave laughed, despite himself. "I hope you're not expecting me to be your big gay mentor, Kurt. As you've probably figured out by now, I kind of suck at it."

"Maybe we can learn from each other, then. I for one hate relationships that are all give and no take."

Dave grinned. "Sounds good to me." He watched as Kurt's gaze flickered back to the door of the classroom. "You're still worried about that guy, aren't you?"

"A little. And…" His face fell visibly.

"And?"

"And I just realized… He was my first kiss. The first one that counted…"

"Jesus…" Dave reached out, but his arm quickly dropped back to his side. "Hey, want to grab some lunch? There was this place I passed by on the way here I was kind of curious about…"

To Dave's infinite relief, a smile came back to Kurt's face. "I would love to."

* * *

That evening, Burt Hummel happened to glance out the window of his home. There was no particular reason, but it was a nice night; with no clouds in the sky, the moon cast everything in a bright glow. A car was driving by; of course, as a mechanic, Burt's mind automatically categorized and filed: 2010 Acura ZDX, silver. After a casual, appraising glance, his attention turned back to the couch and the TV program that awaited him.

So there was no way he could've seen the Acura return for another pass in front of the house. And once more, before it vanished into the dark. Until the next night. And the next…

 


	3. The Substitute: Painful Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I was thinking about when I started this was how existing Klainers/Kurtofskians would approach something like this. Why do they prefer their particular 'ships? Is it the characters involved, the situations, or both? Would a swap like this make them question their preferences at all, or where they come from? Who knows, but I thought that added an extra layer of "challenge" to this.
> 
> (Note, of course, I do not intend to belittle what happened in canon, or make the case that one kind of bullying is any more or less severe and damaging than another. It just made for some interesting thought exercises.)

As far as Kurt was concerned, the first days immediately following the whole Anderson incident went as follows: wake up. Blur. Dinner or movie with Dave. Blur. Bed. Repeat.

Even the worst cinematic experience ended up as a good time when Dave was around; it turned out that the guy had an almost prodigy-level aptitude for snarky comments when he put his mind to it (though it almost didn't surprise Kurt; he'd found that even the dumbest jock bully seemed to have an almost supernatural aptitude for insults and getting under someone else's skin - not that Dave was one of those, heaven forbid). Even when the story on the screen didn't engage, Kurt could just sit back and joust with Dave over who could make the other laugh so loud at their various insults to acting and wardrobe that the "normal" theatergoers around them would turn and glare.

Occasionally, they even caught a musical or two. Dave, perhaps not surprisingly, showed a preference for those with more macho subjects, like _Guys and Dolls_ and _Damn Yankees_ , but didn't complain when Kurt dragged him to something like _Hello Dolly_.

So it was that Kurt found himself at Breadstix one Thursday night, the subject having somehow drifted into America's Next Top Model. "...and of course, she was robbed, just like in season three, when..." Kurt trailed off; he hadn't known Dave for very long, but if nothing else, he'd learned one thing: _that_ particular facial expression meant discomfort or dismay. "Something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Kurt," he finally burst out.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Not again. Please, Dave, we talked about this: if you feel you have to apologize, explain yourself first to make sure there's really something to be sorry about. So, explain."

"I'm... not really into America's Next Top Model. Or fashion stuff."

Kurt shrugged. "Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?"

"See, that's the thing! We... we're so different. You like fashion and shopping and all that gay stuff." Kurt nodded, taking the words in the spirit in which they were intended. "I like hockey and video games and you've seen what I dress like when I'm not at Dalton! We have nothing in common."

Kurt tilted his head slightly. "I didn't know people had to be clones to be friends."

"They don't! It's just... I know I'm like the only other gay guy you know—except Anderson, and you're not gonna be talking much with him any time soon—and I kind of feel bad that I can't be the guy you talk the gay stuff with."

"Oh, Dave. One good thing about having stereotypically feminine interests is that you can share them with—wait for it—women! I have Rachel, Tina, Mercedes—we're having lunch with her tomorrow, by the way—and they're enough. Really. I don't spend time with you so I can get my latest opinions on Alexander McQueen or the latest Vogue cover off my chest..."

Dave shifted in his seat. "Then why do you? I've always kind of wondered..."

"Ugh! I thought I made this clear: I do it because I like you. I think you're interesting."

Dave almost laughed a full-fledged belly laugh. "Me? Interesting?"

"Yes! I told you what I thought when I first met you. You look like a stereotypical jock, but you're smart and kind and you sing beautifully. You have a wicked sense of humor when you care to show it, and you're a loyal enough friend to be wasting gallons of gas to come see me practically every day." Dave blushed at that, but Kurt went on, heedless in his quest to make his point. "You're this mess of seeming contradictions and I'm curious to know how it came about. You are an interesting person, Dave Karofsky. You remind me how much bigger the world is than Lima."

"I'll take your word for it," Dave laughed, shaking his head. "I still feel a little bad for not being able to just connect with you instantly, though."

Kurt nodded to himself, having reached some internal decision. "Tell you what. I don't know if you remember me saying this, but I don't like one-sided relationships. I believe in give and take. Why don't we make an effort to educate each other? On our interests, I mean?"

Dave turned this over in his mind for a moment. "You mean, teach me about fashion and shit?"

"Why not? It's not all about waif-thin models and runways. It's also about personal choices, and knowing what looks good on you and why. It's a useful skill to have. I'd be willing to share my infinite wisdom with you if you like."

"I dunno, Kurt... I took this magazine quiz once that said it'd test how much taste I have. Pick from a couple of simple designs and say which is more tasteful or some shit. Ten lousy questions." Dave grimaced wryly. "I got a zero on it, Kurt. Zero. I have, like, no taste at all."

Kurt stifled a laugh. "It's okay. You're not born with taste. Well, I was, but I'm not like most people."

"No, you are not." Dave smiled, but it wasn't quite joking. It was almost... gentle, in an oddly sincere way. Kurt had to make an effort to force his mind back to the conversation at hand.

"At any rate, taste can be acquired. And I'm just the person to help you acquire it."

"I guess. But what do I have to teach you?"

"Hmm. Why not hockey? You obviously love it. And I don't think you know this, but at McKinley, hockey is considered only slightly better than glee clubs on the social scale. That's always piqued my curiosity." Kurt grinned. "Besides, there have to be some hot hockey players out there, don't there?"

Dave lit up. "Ooooh, yeah."

"Then that's settled! I'll teach you to be fabulous, and you teach me all about slapping and penalty boxing and all that. Deal?" He stuck out his hand across the table.

Dave took it and shook firmly. "Deal."

Kurt clapped his hands in delight. "This is going to be so much fun! Where should we start...? Oh, I know, accessorizing! I know some simple hat tricks that will make you look... What's so funny?"

Dave shook his head as his laughter slowly died down. "You'll find out, Kurt. Believe me, you'll find out."

* * *

SHUT UP OR ELSE

Kurt looked around; the halls appeared to be empty. He'd been running late to his French class, and he'd run to his locker to grab his books. Lying on top of them was a single scrap of white paper, apparently slipped through the vents, scrawled with large black capital letters. Kurt looked down at the note again.

SHUT UP OR ELSE

He took a deep, shuddering breath. There was no signature, but the note nevertheless bore one, loud and clear. He knew Anderson wasn't watching at that moment, gleaming eyes and clenched fists. But the mental image was still there, as real as anything.

This was just the latest in what was fast becoming a pattern of harassment. Anderson never did anything in person—oh, no, he was too smart for that—other than cold, vicious stares in the halls. It started with the e-mails; all were sent from a throwaway Hotmail account, all single lines like the note, all threatening. He blocked the address, only to find another, this one sent from "xpowad" instead of "jqvola". Then there were the little things, like the oddly placed nail he found stuck in one of his deflated tires, and the textbook of his that went missing from his bag (which he swore he'd turned away from only for a second), found later with half its pages torn out. And there were the incidents that he couldn't definitively call "incidents"; only "feelings" or "instinct." In particular, it was the very strong feeling of being watched, followed, and not by a friendly force. No one was ever around during those times (no one visible, anyway), but his father always told him to trust his gut in situations like that, and his gut screamed "Blaine Anderson." Kurt could only guess where Anderson was hiding and what he was thinking during such times. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

And now this. Kurt crumpled the note in his fist, slammed his locker shut, and hurried towards his class, tossing the wad of paper into a garbage can. He couldn't help yearning for the days of simple slushies and shoves against lockers.

* * *

Lunch with Mercedes wasn't exactly a lunch - more like an interrogation. Apparently, she had taken Dave's attempts at friendly conversation with her as an opening to shove a probe into practically every aspect of his life. It was like having a younger, female, African-American version of his father having _that talk_ with the boyfriend. Not, of course, that Dave was anything of the sort. But Mercedes had insisted on meeting the "guy who's taking one of my best friends away from me" (a ridiculous notion, of course; sure, he and Dave were spending a lot of time together, but that's normal in the first stages of a good friendship), so there they were.

To be fair to Mercedes, Kurt actually learned a few things from this; he already knew Dave's parents were divorced and that his father was a civil lawyer with his own small practice, but didn't know that he had an older brother at college, and that his favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle was Raphael (Kurt still wasn't sure how _that_ had come up).

Fortunately, as the meal wore on, Kurt could tell that Mercedes was starting to thaw; she actually started using Dave's name, instead of euphemisms like "white boy" and the ever popular just plain (but tinged with contempt) "you." The plates had just been taken away when Kurt felt the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the number. At that moment, Mercedes raised an eyebrow.

"You okay, boo? You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean."

Dave gave Kurt a concerned look, but the latter shook his head. "It's nothing." He got up and left the table without a word. He could feel the looks Dave and Mercedes were giving him, but didn't see or hear the rest of what transpired.

Mercedes gave Dave a glare that could wither redwoods. "Okay, spill." He choked on his Pepsi.

"I... What do you mean?"

"You know what's going on with Kurt. So spill."

Dave shifted uncomfortably. "He'd kill me if I said anything..."

" _I'll_ kill you if you _don't_. You may be all he talks about these days, but I'm his friend too. Hell, I was his friend before he ever met you. And I'm getting just a _little_ offended that there's obviously something going on that he ain't sharing with me."

Dave blinked. "I'm all he talks about...?"

Mercedes snapped her fingers in his face. "Hey! Focus!" She sat back and sighed. "Look... I get that there's all this gay stuff I don't understand. And you at least seem to be treating him right; God knows he needs all the friends he can get. But I want to help too, you know? He's been there for me, and I want to pay him back."

Dave nodded. "You know, you're right. You do deserve to know. And Kurt does need you. He needs all of you guys in the Glee Club. If you're willing to stick your necks out for him..."

He got an offended look in reply. "You really gotta ask?"

"Good enough for me. This is what I know..."

* * *

Kurt headed into the bathroom alcove, heedless of the conversation and bustle around him. Unlocking his phone, he frantically deleted the call log entry; anything to keep from having to keep seeing that unlisted number, in this or any of its other iterations. Kurt wondered how ten mostly meaningless digits scared him so much. Heading into the bathroom; he stared into the mirror. He _was_ a little peaked, but that was to be expected, wasn't it?

The worst part was, he hadn't seen Blaine Anderson's face in almost a week. That was, on one hand, a very good thing; that way he wouldn't have to see that intense _glare_ that Anderson gave whenever he walked by. But not seeing him just made these little points of contact (not that he _knew_ it was Anderson, but at the same time, he _knew_ ) all the more terrifying.

Kurt splashed some cold water onto his face, wiped himself off with a paper towel, and left the bathroom. He almost collided into Dave and a frowning, arms-folded Mercedes.

"Dave told me everything," she said flatly, without preamble.

"Did he?" Kurt glared at Dave, who replied with a small shake of his head. That one little action told Kurt everything he was wondering; Dave had _not_ outed Anderson to Mercedes. Kurt barely had time to marvel that he just knew what Dave was telling him from that one little action, and vice versa (though he had to admit that the concern _was_ the logical one) before Mercedes went on.

"I don't know what that two faced creep Anderson has against you, and I don't care. You can't let him get away with this."

"I don't know that it's him…" Kurt began weakly.

"I've seen the way Anderson's been glaring at you lately. And don't tell me you ain't scared. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? I can't believe I didn't notice it before." Passersby were staring now; Mercedes took no notice of them, gripping both of Kurt's shoulders and obviously only barely resisting the urge to shake. "We're supposed to be friends, remember? Why didn't you tell me? Why'd I have to hear this from Dave?"

"I…" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I should've told you. It's just… complicated."

Mercedes threw up her arms. "What's so complicated about it? Anderson's harassing you. He has to stop. That's all there is to it." Her mouth set into a hard line. "You keep saying the Glee Club's like a family. Well, family watches out for each other. We're gonna do something about this, Kurt. Just you watch." With that, she snapped open her cell phone and began dialing. As she moved towards the restaurant entrance to hear better, Kurt turned his attention back towards Dave, who flinched at the expression he saw.

"She's right, Kurt," he said quietly. "You shouldn't be going through this alone. You have to confront this head-on."

"You should tell that to Anderson so he'll let me," was the bitter reply. "He's having all kinds of fun just circling me like a shark. I just don't want anyone else getting hurt when he finally decides to come in for a bite."

Dave sighed. "I know you think I had no right telling her, but we're both your friends. She had to know. Look, I know I keep telling you to stand strong, but it's a lot easier to do when you have friends supporting you. God, I can't tell you how many times I was alone, and wished I had someone like the Glee Club in my corner. If they're the kind of people you say they are…"

"Then they're a bunch of lunatics?" Kurt asked with a smile.

Dave chuckled. "Well, yeah, that too. But it sounds to me like when the chips are down, there's not a lot you guys won't do for each other. Am I wrong?"

Kurt paused for a moment. He glanced out the restaurant doors, watching Mercedes still in animated conversation on her phone. Kurt turned back to Dave. "No," he replied, a warm feeling of gratitude coming over him. "No, you're not."

* * *

The following Monday saw Kurt stride out of the cafeteria, his mind awash with plans. He wondered when the best time to talk with Anthony Rashad was. Mercedes deserved that much, and more, for her loyalty as a friend. He almost stopped short with a realization: was it the best... safest... thing to be talking to a football player at this point? What if he was buddies with...

Blaine Anderson appeared before him, as if he'd been formed from the air itself. Kurt couldn't help but let a gasp escape from his lips. He looked around; the halls seemed strangely deserted for the post-lunch hour. But even Anderson couldn't have managed _that_... could he?

"Hello, _fag_ ," the wide receiver snarled. "I hear you've been talking about me."

"I didn't tell anyone!" Kurt yelped. "I swear!"

"You told your boyfriend, didn't you?" Kurt was about to protest, but knew that correcting Anderson on terminology was far from the smartest thing to do at the moment. "Now that entire Glee Club of yours have been giving me the eye."

"I told him because _you_ left me with nowhere else to turn for help. Who else could I go to for support? My father? I may not like you, Anderson, but I don't want you _dead_." Kurt shut his eyes for a moment, hoping a deep breath would calm his jangling nerves. It really didn't. "The Glee Club doesn't know. They only know you're bullying me. I didn't tell them about... the rest."

Anderson looked the trembling Kurt up and down. "You know, I actually believe you. Well, tell your butt buddy to keep his mouth shut too. I don't need everyone knowing how you assaulted me."

"How _I_..." Kurt sputtered. "You were the one who..."

"Shut up!" Anderson hissed. Kurt's mouth sealed shut with a speed that both surprised and annoyed him. "If your lies get around, well..." Anderson's glare deepened, and the temperature seemed to plunge at least ten degrees. "Let's just say I won't be the only one who suffers." He stalked off, and a rubber-kneed Kurt leaned against a wall, almost ready to collapse. It was only at that moment, of course, that the hallways came alive, and students began streaming in packs in every direction, giving Kurt only the barest of avoidance glances before going on with their own lives.


	4. Furt 1: Engagement

Carole Hudson's eyes brimmed with tears. Her hand reached out and caressed the cheek of the man kneeling before her. "Yes," she choked as he slipped the ring onto her finger. Finn had left almost an hour early that morning on some mysterious agenda he refused to discuss. Kurt had left for school himself just minutes previous. So the couple was alone; Burt had been planning to propose when they met for lunch, but he found that waiting... That wasn't an option.

Burt leaped to his feet and pulled her tight into an embrace. "God, there's so much to do. We gotta tell the kids. And we'll have to find a new… Shit! Where the hell are we going to have the wedding…?"

"Shhhh! I don't care, Burt. Really. I don't care. As long as I have you and the boys, we could get married at the shop in the middle of business hours and I'd be happy."

Burt kissed her and rested his chin on her shoulder. "What did I ever do to deserve… Huh."

Carole turned her head slightly. "Something the matter?"

"No, not… It's just that car is back. First time I've seen it during the day..."

She turned, peering out the window into the slowly brightening morning. "Car?"

"Yeah, that Acura ZDX… It's gone now. But I've been seeing it drive by for a while now."

Carole shrugged. "What's so strange about that? Surely it has to belong to one of your neighbors."

Burt shook his head. "I notice these kinds of things. Hazard of the job. I'm almost certain no one in four blocks of us owns that car. And the way it passes by so regularly… It's just strange, that's all."

"Have you called the police?"

"No, no… Nothing's _happened_. It's just…" Burt laughed a little. "God, what am I doing, thinking about a fucking Acura? The woman I love just agreed to marry me." Burt smiled at her, eyes shining. "You're so beautiful."

"Ah, ah, Mr. Hummel," Carole said teasingly, touching her fiancée's nose. "Save some of that for the honeymoon."

* * *

As soon as he stepped into the halls of McKinley, Kurt could feel the tension washing over him in waves. He frowned, looking around him; everything seemed normal. But he couldn't shake the sense of _wrongness_ that surrounded him.

Finn and Sam were talking quietly nearby, both taking oddly nervous glances at something nearby. Kurt followed their gaze straight towards Azimio Adams and Chris Strando, loitering on the other side of the hall. As Kurt continued his stroll, he noticed Puck and Artie near a water fountain. They were glaring across the hall, where Jason Richmond and Lonnie Waters, two of McKinley's offensive linemen, were hanging around with an exaggeratedly casual air.

Kurt's heart began to sink. He hurried on, hoping the pattern would be broken. It wasn't. Mike was being followed by Jermaine Andrews, cornerback. Even Mr. Schue was shadowed by Vic Lansford, tight end, although unlike the others, the teacher seemed oblivious to the presence of his tail.

 _Oh, God,_ Kurt thought. He was about to grab one of his friends and confirm his fears when a hand clapped on his shoulder.

Kurt was sure that if he'd been a cat, he'd be clinging to the ceiling by his claws. As it was, he felt like he jumped half the height of the hallway as he turned. His father stepped back a little, grinning, his left arm linked in Carole's right. "Whoa, there, son. Sorry if I startled you."

Kurt willed his heart rate to slow. "Just… just a little. Sorry, I kind of forgot you were on your way. So, what's this big news you had?"

"You'll see. Come on, let's find Finn."

Kurt forced a smile onto his face. He had a vague suspicion what was going on, and if he was right, he couldn't ruin this moment for his father and Carole. He just couldn't. "Let's do it!" As he followed the two adults, he caught a flashing glimpse of a pair of intense hazel eyes under a crown of curly hair. But in the next moment, it was gone.

* * *

Unfortunately, the first chance he had to talk to Finn after that was at rehearsal. He charged into the choir room; fortunately, his stepbrother-in-all-but-license was already there, pacing. The rest of the guys were sitting at their seats on the risers, in the middle of intense conversation. Finn turned towards him immediately, eyes wide. "Dude, I'm so sorry… We tried, we really did. But every time we got even close to Anderson…"

"His buddies were around," Kurt finished sourly.

"Yeah! They're freakin' everywhere! We can keep Anderson away from you…"

"But he wasn't getting close to me to begin with."

Finn's face brightened. "Dude! You're finishing my sentences! It's like we're brothers already!"

Kurt laughed, despite himself. He opened his mouth to speak when Quinn stormed into the choir room, a sour look on her face. "Tell me something: there are students at this school who _aren't_ Cheerios, right?"

"Uh… Yes?" Artie ventured.

"Then why do I keep seeing them in my face wherever I go?"

"Oh, God, you too?" breathed Kurt. It should've been obvious, really, but hearing it drove the reality painfully home.

Mercedes and the rest of the female contingent of the Glee Club trickled in, all with angry and/or defeated looks. Santana in particular looked like she was just waiting for an excuse to cut someone.

" _Putas_ ," she muttered darkly. "They'll do anything for that _cutie_." She said that last word in a high, mocking singsong.

"Can't someone talk to Coach Sylvester?" Mike asked. "Tell her that the Cheerios are..."

"Doing what?" Quinn sighed. "Walking in the hallways? Even if she tried, they'd just figure out a way around it. If it's a fight between their fear of Coach Sylvester and their stupid crushes on Anderson... I'm really not sure which wins."

"They're circling the wagons," Puck growled. "Anderson's got 'em all protecting him like a herd of fucking African buffalo." There was a silence as everyone stared at him. "You know. When they all get into this circle facing out to keep the lions away from their kids?" The staring continued. "Hey, I watch Animal Planet."

"We'll think of something else, Kurt," Mercedes said soothingly, touching Kurt's shoulder. "He won't get away with this."

Kurt sighed. "He gets away with everything, 'Cedes. He always has." Then he glanced about the room. Everyone had this… _look_ on their faces. This scary, scary look that, even though he knows it wasn't directed at him, still chilled him to the spine. But at the same time, it was kind of… heartwarming? Because he knew it wasn't directed at him, but _for_ him. Even if their efforts were futile, they were going to try. By God, they were going to try.

"Not this time," Mercedes replied in a low voice. Kurt smiled, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

* * *

After rehearsal, Kurt returned to his locker, his head swimming. Dave… Wedding… Anderson… Like a warm and cold front colliding to create storms, everything happening all at once was threatening to rip his mind apart. A warm bath… Yes, that's what he needed. Maybe with some scented oil, definitely bubbles…

As he opened the locker door, Kurt frowned. Where was the cake topper? It had been right there, atop his books… He reached in and felt behind the stacks of stuff. Nothing. He removed everything from the locker, piling it on the floor until there was nothing but bare metal, with nary a hole, or a wedding cake topper, to be seen.

Kurt's heart pounded. His mind racing, he could only reach one conclusion. _He was in my locker. Anderson was in my locker…_ His eye went immediately to the edge of the door. There was no damage, no sign of prying. _He knows the combination to my locker!_

His breath became shallow and wheezing. His heart pounded, and it felt as though something was squeezing at his chest. He nearly sank to his knees at the weight of it.

"Kurt?" He turned; Mr. Schuester was standing there, a concerned look on his face. "Are you all right?"

Kurt opened his mouth to tell him everything, but a dark thought tugged at him. _Anderson has almost the entire faculty fooled. What if Mr. Schue is one of them?_ He tried to reject the very notion, tried to tell himself that Anderson had no contact with the Spanish teacher, that he knew who Mr. Schue would choose if push came to shove. But when his lips started moving, he found them forming the words "No… Nothing's wrong. I just lost something."

"Oh. Well, I hope you find it." Mr. Schue smiled. "Hey, I heard from Finn about your dad and his mother. Congratulations. He said you wanted New Directions to perform at the wedding?" Kurt nodded dumbly. "Great! If you need any help with song selection, just ask, okay?"

Kurt forced a smile. "You can count on it." He watched as Mr. Schuester walked off, his breathing slowly returning to normal. _That was probably the biggest mistake you've ever made in your life, Hummel._ He sighed deeply, turning back to his locker. On the inside of the door, there was taped a small picture of Dave Karofsky, handsome and smiling in his Dalton uniform. Underneath, two simple words written in colored pencil: "Stand strong."

Kurt's mouth set, and he nodded to himself. He would stand strong. For himself, for his father, for Dave. He had to. He had to…

* * *

"I am coming down there right now, Kurt."

"Dave, don't…"

"You hear me walking outside? I am getting into my car, and I'm coming down there. Then I'm going to find Anderson, and I'm going to kick his ass, football friends or no football friends."

"And you don't think he'd love that? You don't think he wants to play the innocent victim while you get arrested?" There was a silence on the other end of the line. Kurt nodded to himself in satisfaction. "I'm standing strong, Dave. I'm handling things. I really am." He prayed that Dave couldn't hear the lie in his voice. "Besides, the Glee Club's looking out for me. Give me a chance to stand strong. Please."

The silence continued. Then: "Okay. But if he ever tries anything more direct…"

"Then you have my full permission to start the ass-kicking."

Dave laughed, a warm, welcome sound. "Good. And congratulations on your dad. Family should be the best thing in your life."

Kurt nodded. "It is. It really is…"

* * *

Blaine turned the wedding cake topper over in his hand. It was cheap, of course, and silly. God only knew why Hummel had it.

But then, he wasn't quite sure why he had it either. There was a hundred different ways he could've warned Hummel off. Why this one seemed so important, and why he hadn't thrown the damn thing away as soon as he had it, was puzzling him. And he hated puzzles.

A knock came at his bedroom door. Blaine shoved the topper into a drawer just as his father entered the room. "How's the studying going?"

"Just fine, sir."

"Good. Remember, Mr. Langley and his daughter are coming for dinner on Friday night. I expect you to be on your best behavior." He smiled in a way that told Blaine exactly what that "best behavior" was expected to be. Blaine's stomach churned. Which was just indigestion, of course, not the idea of entertaining his father's business associate's daughter for an evening. Certainly not.

"I will, sir."

"Perfect. 'Night, son." Roger Anderson was gone, leaving Blaine alone with his thoughts, with his fears, with a wedding cake topper that Blaine imagined was already burning a hole in the bottom of his desk drawer.

* * *

Kurt groaned. "No, no! First forward, _then_ back with the other foot! Do you _want_ to put Carole in the hospital during her own wedding?" He loved Finn (though no longer in _that_ way), he really did. But if he'd remembered just what he was getting into by agreeing to teach him a dance for the wedding, he'd have probably run for the hills and never looked back.

His father, thank the heavens, was a much better student. The three were gathered in the McKinley choir room, practicing their moves. Or in Finn's case, the flailing. But he was at least starting to learn, though he still had a ways to go. And for Carole's sake, not to mention for the sake of her feet, Kurt was determined to see it through.

He sighed. "Let's try it again." He took Finn into his arms, an action that bore none of the heat and want that it would've had mere months ago. "And one and two, one and… Careful! These are new shoes! Are you paying attention, Finn?"

"I am! Really!"

"Well, you sure have a funny way of…" Kurt turned pale. From his vantage point facing the doors, behind Finn's back, he saw Blaine Anderson stroll casually by. He glared at Kurt with that _look_ , those eyes infused with all kinds of hate and anger and something else entirely that made him even more uncomfortable, if that were humanly possible. The gaze turned startled for a moment when it flickered to Burt, who stood off to the side, then quickly turned neutral. Anderson scurried away.

Burt frowned. "Who was that?"

Kurt swallowed. "Just one of my classmates."

"He had this funny look on his face," Burt persisted. "I don't think he noticed me at first, but there was definitely something about the way he looked at you that…"

Finn turned wildly towards the door. "Was it Anderson?" He turned back to Kurt with a serious expression. "Dude, I thought you were gonna tell your dad. You promised."

"Will you stop calling me…"

"Tell me what?" Burt stepped forward, glaring. "Tell me what, Kurt?" he repeated.

"He's… been giving me some trouble these past few weeks."

"'Some trouble'?" Finn echoed incredulously. "Jesus, Kurt, the guy's practically stalking you!"

"He's _what_?" Burt started turning an alarming shade of red. "What's he been doing? How long has this been going on? And what does Finn mean by he's stalk…" His face suddenly twisted into a strange, thoughtful look. "Kurt," he asked in a low, quiet voice, "what kind of car does the kid drive?"

"What kind of car…?"

"Answer my question. You're my son, so I know you can tell. And if he's been causing you trouble, I know you've noticed what his car is, if only so you could avoid it. Don't make me ask again. What kind of car does he drive, and what color is it?"

Kurt swallowed. He wasn't sure where this was going, but he knew _something_ was going to happen the minute he spoke his next words. "A 2010 silver Acura ZDX," he said slowly. "Why?"

He didn't get his answer. Burt seemed to have disappeared between eye blinks. Kurt's wide eyes met Finn's, and both raced out of the choir room. The hallways outside seemed empty, but they could hear Burt's shouts echoing from around a corner. "You've been driving by my house? Terrorizing my kid?"

"Please… Mr. Hummel…!" Anderson's voice, sounding pained. Kurt and Finn ran towards the source of the sounds. They practically skidded around the corner, and were treated to the sight of Burt buttonholing Blaine Anderson against a wall. The teenager's feet were actually dangling off the ground, his face pinched and pale as his hands gripped at Burt's wrists, probably the only thing keeping him from choking.

"What the hell have you been doing to Kurt?"

"I… don't know what you're talking about…"

"I've seen your car! Answer me!"

"Dad! Your heart! Dad!" He grabbed his father's arm. "Please! Put him down!" Burt turned to his son as if he didn't recognize him, rage shaking his entire body. Slowly, painfully slowly, the intense color drained from Burt's face. His grip loosened, and Anderson crashed to the floor, coughing.

Burt turned his baleful gaze onto the teenager in front of him. "Be grateful. Kurt here just saved your life." He took a shuddering breath. "I'm going to have a nice long talk with your principal. Don't think for a _second_ this is over." He stalked away. Kurt took one last glance at Blaine, then followed his father. Finn was the last; he lingered with a strange expression on his face. Then he too was gone, leaving Blaine on the floor, rubbing his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: As an aside, the first scene is my attempt to explain why Carole and Burt decided to tell the guys about the engagement at school, as opposed to any of the myriad times when all four were, y'know, under the same roof.


	5. Furt 2: Privilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to get this straight now: Dalton, as far as I'm concerned, is a goddamn boarding school. I just can't make sense of the logistics otherwise. So there. :P

Indeed, the next step came only two days later, in the office of relatively new Principal Sue Sylvester. With Burt and Kurt Hummel sitting on one side of the room, and Roger and Blaine Anderson on the other, one could be forgiven for thinking there was a murder trial in progress. The defendant had watched with a carefully neutral stare as Kurt testified to a (mildly edited) account of the past weeks.

"Is that everything?" Sue asked quietly. It was a deathly kind of quiet, the kind that, in Kurt's experience, was usually followed by some kind of insane order or plot. He knew Sue had a twisted kind of respect, if not "affection," for him, but she still never failed to intimidate.

"Yes. That's everything."

Sue turned her glare towards the Andersons; Blaine quailed, as did anyone with experience with Sue and half a brain, but his father, to Kurt's amazement and grudging respect, barely flinched. "Do you have anything to say about this?"

"I…" Blaine began.

"I don't believe it," Roger Anderson cut in. "I just can't believe that Blaine would be so stupid as to risk his entire future doing these insane things. It's just ridiculous. That's not what my son is like."

"Believe it," Burt growled. "I've seen his car myself."

"Blaine does not own the only silver Acura in the state. Maybe not even in Lima. Did you get a license plate number? See the driver?"

"No…"

"Then how the hell do you know it was Blaine's? Or even the same one every night?" He turned towards Sue. "Principal Sylvester, surely you can see…"

"The only thing I'm seeing is a student I have the tiniest molecule of an iota of something vaguely resembling fondness for shaking like an anorexic after a three day Red Bull binge," Sue interrupted. "I know fear. I live for fear. And the fear I'm seeing in him is _not_ created by a few pranks or a couple of shoves. I have to work _hard_ for that kind of fear."

The senior Anderson spread his hands magnanimously. "I don't deny that Kurt is in distress. And I respect the struggles his kind goes through because of their lifestyle…"

Kurt raised an eyebrow. _Really?_ He glanced at Blaine, who had sunk just slightly in his seat. For perhaps not the first time, Kurt felt a stab of pity for his fellow student and gay man. An awareness of where Blaine's fear came from was starting to bubble through…

"But I simply can't reconcile what he's saying with what I know of my son." He turned to Kurt. "Do you still have those notes you claim you found in your locker?"

"No," Kurt rasped, suddenly feeling very foolish. "I threw them away."

"What about logs of those calls you got?"

"No," Kurt replied, his mental forehead-beating increasing.

The senior Anderson turned back to Sue with a greasy smile. "You see my point? I'm not saying that Kurt is making this up…" _No, not at all,_ Kurt thought. "But let's be reasonable here. To jeopardize my son's bright future on one boy's word, without evidence…"

"What about it, Frodo?" Sue asked, shooting a glare at Blaine. His father frowned at the name; Sue was never very diplomatic, but it was clear to Kurt that her growing "righteous" anger was even further beating her already terminally ill internal censor to death. "Why not speak up for yourself for once? I'll repeat: what do you have to say about all this?"

Blaine turned on that charming smile of his; Kurt's stomach protested. "I think Kurt may be projecting a little here. He doesn't like me, so he blames me for whatever's going on in his life. Or maybe he likes me just a little too much…?"

Kurt's hands gripped the armrests of his chair. He could see that his father was having to restrain himself as well. "That's exactly what I don't understand," Roger Anderson said. "Why. Why would Blaine do something like this, something so out of control, so out of bounds?"

Sue turned to Kurt. "Do you know the answer to his question, Gelfling?"

Kurt swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Blaine staring at him. He wore an expression seemed for all the world like casual curiosity, but in his eyes, Kurt could see he was screaming. "I…" Screaming, crying, begging. "I think he's trying to shut me up. Intimidate me into not telling anyone how much he's been bullying me." The desperation in Blaine's eyes blinked out immediately, replaced by what Kurt could only call shock.

"I've heard enough," Sue said flatly. Kurt's heart leaped with hope. "I'm going to…"

Roger Anderson held up a hand. "Before you go on, may I use your phone?"

Sue frowned. "Why?"

"Please." He reached over and dialed a number. He pressed the button for the speaker and hung up the receiver. The buzz of a phone ringing shot through the room. Burt raised an eyebrow at his son; Kurt shrugged helplessly. Finally, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Jay! It's Roger."

"Roger! Good to hear from you! How're Elaine and your son?"

"Actually, Blaine is the reason I'm calling you." He turned to Sue, who had a strange look on her face, as if she recognized the voice on the phone. "Please, Principal Sylvester, tell him everything." Kurt's breath hitched in his chest. He still wasn't quite sure what was going on, but somehow he had the horrible feeling that it was not good…

* * *

"I'll get it!" Finn's heavy footsteps echoed through the house as he ran to the front door and yanked it open. The person who stood on the other side had an expectant look on his face. "Dave?"

"Hi. You must be Finn…?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Come on in." He waited until Dave had fully entered, then shut the door behind him. "Want a soda or something?"

"Nah, I'm good. Um, where's Kurt?"

"Actually… He's not back yet."

Dave frowned. "But when you called me, you said that…"

Finn rubbed the back of his head as he sat on the couch. "Yeah, I… kinda lied about that. I got your number off of Kurt's phone. He… doesn't actually know you're here."

"What? Why'd you do that?"

"Because I wanted to make absolutely sure you'd come. See, I think Kurt's really going to need you here when he gets back."

"Huh? Why? He said that your principal actually kind of likes him…"

"But he doesn't know Anderson's folks," Finn replied. "I've met them. His mom's from one of those really old, really connected families in the Philippines. His dad is this big shot who knows all kinds of powerful people. He's got his picture taken with, like, four presidents! And they're both stinking rich! I'm afraid that Anderson's going to get out of this with nothing."

"Oh, yeah, you're on the football team too…" Dave's curious look turned into a glare. "So you've been Anderson's teammate for at least a year. You know what he's really like. At least you do now. But you never stopped him? You let him bully Kurt, and God knows who else, and now you think you're making up for all that…?"

A look of intense shame came over Finn's face. "Yeah… Okay… I was afraid… afraid that Anderson was gonna use his popularity to get the rest of the team to hate me. Then I'd be sacked all the time and maybe lose quarterback. But then Mercedes told me what he was doing to Kurt and… I couldn't let him do that. Not even if I get sacked for the rest of my life. I couldn't keep ignoring it." He swallowed. "Besides… I used to buy it too. The act he puts on for the teachers, for the girls, for the guys he actually respects. But not anymore."

Dave calmed, but a little anger still simmered through. "Well, you're gonna be his stepbrother soon."

"I know."

"That means that he'll be family."

"I know. And I'm gonna keep him safe, I swear." Finn paused. "Hey, man, Mercedes told me it was you who told her what was going on with Anderson. Thanks."

Dave shrugged. "Wish I could do more. Kurt always said I was… Uh, no offense, but what are you looking at me like that for?"

"Well…" Finn turned beet red. "I was wondering something… Kurt has you as his Facebook friend, right? And I was checking your page out, you know, just to see what you're like…"

Dave frowned in confusion. "Yeah? And?"

"And it says you're gay. You're gay, right?"

"I wouldn't have put it there if I wasn't. What's your point?"

Finn's hands worried at each other in discomfort. "I... I don't know. It's just that you don't... I mean, you look so..."

"Masculine?" Dave asked with a wry grin. "Normal?"

"No! Okay, kind of. Not that you're not normal! I mean... Kurt's the only other gay guy I know, and, well... You know what he's like. I've never met one that looked like he could play football like me."

"Don't think there's just one kind of gay guy. I'm me. Kurt's Kurt. We're two different people. Hell, the gender we want to date may be the only thing we really have in common."

"But you're still friends?"

"Yeah. I wonder about it too sometimes, but Kurt and I seem to get along for some reason. But it's not because we're gay. Well, not _just_ because of it."

"Okay... I think I get that..." Finn took a deep breath. "I don't understand it all, but I'm trying, y'know? For his sake. Seeing as how we're gonna be family and all."

"I'm sure he appreciates it."

"Thanks, dude!" A pause. "So, uh... Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Why, you interested?"

Finn turned strawberry, nearly jumping to his feet waving his arms. "No, no! I mean, no offense or anything, but you... I mean, I'm not...!"

Dave couldn't help but laugh. "Calm down, Finn, I'm just yanking your chain. You're not my type." The other sat back down, relief flooding his face. "Anyway... I used to have a boyfriend, but that was a few years ago. God, it feels like ages..." Dave shook his head, sighing. "But I don't have one now. I don't think I ever will."

"Why not?"

"You kidding? Look at me." He lifted his hands in a half-shrug. "I'm not exactly the biggest catch in the ocean."

"I thought you said there wasn't just one type of gay guy. So why can't there be one that likes you?"

Dave blinked at this sudden burst of insight. _Damn. Didn't see_ that _coming_. "And I meant it. I just... I don't think there's anyone out there for me. Who the hell would want someone like me?"

Finn shrugged. "Kurt likes you," he said casually. "He talks about you all the time. He thinks you're cool."

"Well, yeah, but that's Kurt. He's my friend; of course he's gonna think I'm cool. But boyfriends? No way. We're way too different. But it's okay, though. I've pretty much accepted that me and relationships is something that just wasn't meant to be."

"But..."

Dave held up an arresting hand. "Finn... Do you mind if we talk about something else? I... just feel a little uncomfortable talking about my love life with someone I've just met, especially a friend's brother."

"Sure. Sorry about that."

"No problem," Dave replied, relieved that the matter wasn't pressed further. "So… uh… I see you have an Xbox 360."

"Yeah! You got one too?"

"Sure do. Hey, you play Team Fortress 2?"

Finn's face lit up. "Do I? Dude, it's an awesome game! I usually play a Soldier. What about you?"

"I…" A car screeched to a halt outside; both boys looked up, then at each other. They rose, but before they could take a step, the front door exploded open. Burt Hummel stomped in, his entire body practically shaking with rage.

"Burt…?"

" _Not now, Finn!_ " He disappeared from the room, followed seconds later by a foundation-shaking door slam. Carole emerged from the kitchen, following his path, and vanishing just as quickly.

Kurt entered the house a few seconds later, his face scrunched up and unreadable. He looked up at the two in the living room in surprise. "Dave? What are you doing here?"

"Finn called me over. Kurt, what hap… Whoa!" Dave had never been tackled before, but he imagined this is what it felt like. As it was, even the small Kurt Hummel practically knocked him off his feet as he launched himself into a tight embrace around Dave's torso. Torn between concern and awkwardness (Finn was _right there_ staring, after all), Dave gently rubbed Kurt's trembling back. "Oh, God, Kurt, what the hell happened?"

"Nothing!" Kurt snarled bitterly as he separated from his friend. "Nothing happened. Anderson's walking away scot free."

Dave looked up at Finn in horror; the other boy merely nodded sadly. "But what happened with your principal? I thought she…"

"She was going to suspend him, maybe expel him." Kurt sniffled as his trembling slowly ceased. "I know she was. But Anderson's father has half the school board on speed dial. Including the chairman. He told us on no uncertain terms that if Coach Sylvester so much as gave Anderson detention, he'd reverse it. 'There's just not enough proof to ruin a bright young man's life.'" His voice at this last was high, jeering, mocking. He threw himself onto the couch, almost bouncing to his feet again at the force. "Coach Sylvester resigned right then and there in protest. Nothing's going to change. Nothing."

Dave and Finn sat on each side of the downcast teenager. "Hey, it's gonna be okay," Finn started. "The Glee Club…"

"Can't do anything as long as Anderson has the football team and Cheerios at his command, remember?" Kurt sighed miserably. "It's not your fault, Finn. It's not anyone's fault except Anderson's. It's just the way it is."

"I'm going to kill him." Dave growled, turning the same alarming shade of crimson Burt Hummel had. "I'm going to tear him into bits with my bare hands."

"Save some for me," snapped Finn.

"Fine, we'll both kill him. Then we can each hide half the body."

Kurt groaned. "Boys! Please! No one's killing anyone. Dad and I already started discussing this. I know what I have to do." He turned to Dave. "I'm coming to Dalton."

"What?" both Finn and Dave shouted at once. The former's next words were quicker. "But Kurt, you can't!"

"I have to, Finn. No one at McKinley can protect me. Not as long as Anderson's got everyone fooled. If I stay, I'll never be safe. And while I'm gone, maybe you can figure out a way out of this without having to watch over me all day. Maybe without me, Anderson can get to a better place..." Finn looked confused at this, but Dave merely nodded silently. "Dad already said we'd find a way to pay for it, though I don't know how he'll..."

"But dude…" Finn's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, as if he were forcing the words out. "What about the Glee Club?"

Kurt squeezed the arch of his nose with two fingers. "I know, believe me, I know. I don't want to. But I have to."

"But…" Dave nearly stopped right there, not sure he even wanted to argue against this idea. _But I have to. Stand strong, Karofsky. This isn't about you; this is about Kurt._ "Anderson's already proved he can get to you without being near you. Will going to Dalton really change anything?"

Kurt shook his head. "If he's willing to drive all the way to Westerville to stalk me, then there's _nowhere_ that would be safe anyway. Besides, doesn't Dalton's zero tolerance policy extend to outside threats? Anderson will realize he'll be in huge trouble he might not be able to talk his way out of if he tries anything. That and… I'll at least feel safer. I _need_ to feel safer. It's the only way I can keep myself together." He sniffled, wiping moisture off his face. "I'm so sorry, Dave... I tried to stand strong, I really did... But it's just... just..."

"Hey, stop beating yourself up. The bullies are bad enough without you doing it to yourself. Look, I know you tried, and that's enough. You can't win every battle, or even fight them all. Any of us would destroy ourselves if we tried. You're not weak. You got that?" Dave stared at Kurt seriously. "You're not."

"Thanks..." One last shudder, and Kurt's back straightened. "My dad's going to look into getting me into Dalton once he calms down... Do you think you can help from your end?"

Dave regarded Kurt sadly, finally nodding. "Okay. I'll ask around and find out how to get the ball rolling. Maybe I can talk to my dad about maybe getting some kinda restraining order...?"

"Thank you," Kurt whispered.

Finn still looked like he was in shock. "Dude… You'll be in Westerville most of the week now."

"I know."

"It's not fair! We were just gonna be brothers. Real brothers!"

"I know," Kurt choked.

"I… I'll miss you, Kurt. We all will."

"Oh, God, Finn, you're acting like I'm dying, or going to Mars. It's two hours away. I'll try to come home every weekend. Or you could get your lazy rear up there and visit _me_."

"Yeah, but… It's not going to be the same."

Dave and Kurt looked at each other. "No," Kurt finally said. "Nothing's going to be the same."

* * *

The wedding was beautiful. Kurt had never believed in people looking "radiant," but seeing the bride and groom here, now... They were radiant. They really were.

Kurt wished for the hundredth time that Dave was there. But the Warbler had declined the invitation. "It's too last minute; I don't want to be a burden. Besides, you'll see so much of me soon that you'll be completely sick of me. This is a time for you to be with your family and..." He had paused for a long while before continuing. "You should be spending as much time with your McKinley friends as you can," he'd said quietly.

And he was right. In fact, it provided the only somewhat sour note to the whole event. Every single one of his fellow Glee Club members wanted to dance with him - even the guys... even Puck. Every single one bent over backwards to help with the decorating, get him food, show him a good time. Quinn had even declined to attend. "I... don't want to upset Finn's mom," she'd said with a look on her face that seemed completely foreign to her; Kurt wondered how much of this was her, and how much came from some long, secret conversation with Finn. "I don't want anything to spoil your parents' wedding. We'll catch up later, okay?" In general, the hugs and the words and the tears added a streak of emotion to the gathering that was more appropriate for a wake than a wedding.

Now he was in his new stepbrother's arms, dancing as the last notes of "Just the Way You Are" died from Finn's throat. Kurt's heart swelled with pride, for both the skill of Finn's moves and the fact that he was dancing with a guy in public. _He's come so far..._ He looked up at Finn with an amused look. "'Furt,' huh?"

"Yeah. Pretty clever, eh?" For a brief moment, nothing but music filled their ears. "I feel like such an idiot, Kurt. I said in front of everyone that I'd have your back, but I've already failed..."

"Will you shut up about that? Everyone's treating me like they gave me cancer. I'm transferring schools, Finn, that's all. You haven't failed me. Nobody has. You've all tried your best, and... I'm grateful for that. Seriously. Hey." He looked up at his stepbrother seriously. "You got that?"

"Yeah, I've got that." They danced in silence for another few moments. "We'll still miss you, though."

"Me too," Kurt replied, almost proud of the way he was holding back the tears. "Me too."


	6. Special Education 1: Settling In

Noah Puckerman was having a bad day. Then again, any day that includes being locked in a porta-potty really doesn't have much competition in the "day I'll try to drink away and skip in my memoirs" (thank you for that, Rachel) department. He knew that going to the football team for new members wasn't the greatest idea (the fact that he couldn't think of anywhere else to really start recruiting was a little depressing in of itself), but he never really imagined that the guys he used to think of as friends would go quite this far.

Of course, Anderson and Strando were at the forefront of mocking his attempts to get the team to see things his way. Funny, though, as he thought of it (and he really didn't have much to do but think, apart from "enjoying" the smell emanating from underneath him): Anderson put up a good show of sneering and jeering about the Glee Club, but Puck had known the guy for years, ever since elementary school. In having an acquaintanceship that long, you get to just sense things about them, even if they were never particularly close to you. And Puck could just tell that Anderson's heart really wasn't in it. Which was weird, because the guy was the entire reason why the Glee Club was in the fix they were in. And the way Anderson flinched when Puck brought up Kurt... Puck himself had almost missed it, but there it was.

It just didn't compute. Anderson came out of the whole incident smelling like a rose (and not like, say, sewage). When news of Anderson's "trial" and Kurt's transfer got to his popular peers, they were ecstatic, high-fiving and back-slapping him for days. His dad's favorite puppet Figgins was back in charge. He'd won. Anderson had won, in every conceivable way.

So why didn't he seem happy about it?

Maybe those idiots Anderson called friends couldn't tell, but Puck liked to think that being in the Glee Club had brought out a little of his sensitive (yet still ultra-manly) side. He started actually paying attention to what other people were doing. And Anderson sure didn't _act_ like someone who'd pulled the coup of his high school career. Hell, Puck would've noticed something amiss from the sharp downturn in slushie incidents alone. Anderson's laugh and jeering had been mostly replaced by a quiet, faraway look. Kurt hadn't reported any contact or odd incidents at that fancy school of his (which surprised them both). But what could he possibly be thinking about?

Puck sighed, leaning against the cool plastic wall. Whatever the answer, it looked like he had some time to figure it out. Was it weird that he was starting to get used to the smell?

* * *

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." Kurt held the cage at arm's length as he and Dave left the council room. "I didn't know having a pet forced on you was part of the curriculum here."

Dave shrugged helplessly. "Don't let Wes hear you say that. He'll probably start lecturing you on how Jebediah Springfield the future horse manure billionaire started the practice in 1822 or whatever. It is kind of stupid, but he's big into the upholding of traditions thing. I can help you out if you want."

Kurt frowned a little. "I was going to ask you about that, actually... Not the help, but... Your friends seemed a lot different in there than they were when I first met them."

Dave sighed. "Yeah. Wes and David are actually cool guys, really. I've been friends with them since before I was ever in the Warblers. Wes was my upperclass mentor for my first year here. And David... well, after the fourth or fifth time we both turned when someone called our name, we sorta got to talking. But when it comes to Warbler business... they take it so damn seriously! Wes especially. It's the whole tradition thing again. No one wants to be the one to break the chain."

"It seems I don't have a place in that chain yet," was the quiet response.

"Yeah... I'm sorry about that, Kurt. They're really big on conformity here, and right now, you're kind of the outsider still." Dave's fingers caressed the lapels of his blazer. "Act as one, good of the many, uphold tradition and all that. That's sort of Dalton's identity, you know?"

"I get that. It's just such a big change from what I'm used to. I miss wearing what I want already." Kurt shook his head. "I want to try out for a solo at Sectionals, but I'm not so sure now. What do they want from me as a soloist?"

"Honestly? Fuck 'em." Kurt stopped short in surprise; Dave nearly collided with him as a result. "What? I've been telling you to stand strong and be yourself for, what, months now? I'd be a pretty huge hypocrite if I told you to go along with the crowd now, wouldn't I?"

"But... you seem to do it pretty well."

Dave laughed. "That's just because I have two council leaders as friends. They have to listen to me; they were the ones that dragged me into the Warblers in the first place."

"Ah, nepotism." Kurt smirked. "But I would've loved to have seen your audition. I can imagine you were probably kicking and screaming the entire time."

"Hell, yeah. But I owe 'em for that. No matter how good I am..."

"And you are. Very."

"Well, thanks. But either way, I love it. I love singing, being on stage. That's all that really matters." Dave paused, laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder to turn them towards each other. "Seriously. Like I said, fuck 'em. You just keep singing like you want to sing and suggesting the songs you want to suggest. If they won't take you or your talent seriously, that's their loss."

Kurt nodded as the two continued to walk the storied Dalton halls. "Yeah, but... Sometimes I just wonder if it'd be easier to go with the flow. Give in. Just... conform already."

"You didn't do that at McKinley. Why start now?"

"Actually, I did. For a good long while I did. Or at least I tried." Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment. "And you know what? It sucked."

Dave smiled. "There you go. Keep at it, and they might come around. It took me ages to convince Wes and David to consider the kinds of songs I like, but eventually they did it just to shut me up."

"Oh, so I have to be loud and annoying, then?"

"Hey, man, it works. Just go with it. And between you and me..." Dave's voice dropped to a near whisper. "Sometimes I like to give the whole tradition bullshit a middle finger in small ways."

"Oh? Do tell."

"I actually sometimes _use my salad fork for my spaghetti_." Kurt gasped in mock horror. "It's true! Oh, and I play Bejeweled on my phone during assemblies. And sometimes I go commando under the uniform..." Dave stopped dead. "Oh, shit. I actually said that out loud, didn't I? Holy fuck. Kurt, I..." He turned, but Kurt seemed to have vanished. Then he looked down. The junior Warbler was on the floor, on his knees, with his forehead resting against the cold tile. His entire body was trembling. "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"

"Nnnnnooooo... No, no..." Kurt replied in a very tense voice. "I'm not... I'm not laughing, Dave..." He coughed loudly and jumped to his feet with a prim look. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom." With that, he practically ran down the hall and around the corner, leaving Pavarotti on the floor with a rather confused look for a small bird. Dave sighed as peals of Kurt's high pitched, hysterical laughter seemed to echo from every direction.

* * *

That night, Kurt found himself on a website he'd never in a million years imagined himself being interested in: ESPN. Specifically, the NHL section. In his mind, the text was still a mess of jargon, a mash of numbers, and a hodgepodge of Scandinavian and Russian names (similar to, say, Karofsky), but he could almost feel it pulling together, starting to make a little more sense. That was undoubtedly Dave's influence.

He was under no illusions about the likelihood that Dave was at that moment watching streaming Style Channel programs or anything like that, but their little "training sessions" were not only bearing fruit, they were actually fun. He loved the way Dave's eyes lit up whenever he talked about that Red Wings game his father took him to at age eight, or the miracle pass he made in the championship game of the league he was in during junior high. There was all the same joy and wonder from the first time he saw Dave perform.

As for his impact on Dave... Well, he was certainly an attentive listener, but Kurt wasn't quite sure how much of his lessons were getting through. So far, the few times he'd seen Dave dress in casual clothes, they were just the same t-shirts and awful flannel he usually wore. Perhaps the problem was his current selection. Then a shopping trip was certainly in order! He made himself a mental note to find a map of the local malls and start planning...

His head whipped up, startled by a sudden realization. For the first time he could remember, he hadn't thought of his friends or family back in Lima practically all day. _Well, look at_ _that_ , _Kurt Hummel... You're making a life for yourself here._ The thought was at once heartening and saddening. So what had he thought about? Classes, of course. But mostly something else.

Or rather, someONE else.

 _Okay... That is NOT what I particularly wanted to think about right now..._ Mostly because it was... complicated? After all, Dave was a bulwark of support during a tough time in his life. Was that enough for their friendship to become anything more? Was Dave's kindness somehow coloring his feelings and impressions of him and their relationship? Would it matter if it were? And was he asking all these questions of himself _way_ too late?

Then there was what Dave thought of all this. As far as he could tell, Dave was just... Dave. Simple and honest Dave. That should make things easy to talk about, right? Except the time was never right, or they were having too much fun talking about something else, or someone interrupted, or...

Kurt sighed and rubbed his eyes. Dave would tell him at once if he wasn't interested (or God forbid, not attracted). He'd be kind and let him down easy, and they'd go on with their friendship as usual.

Except, of course, it would never be quite the same. Dave would always be worried about making the wrong impression, tiptoe through eggshells around him, which Kurt hated. Or worse, it would be Kurt who'd be that way. _Awkwardness. Like I don't have enough of that in my life._

Maybe it would just be easier to not bring it up at all. After all, didn't all the relationship advisors say to let things develop naturally? And why risk a good thing now? Make the friendship stronger first, more able to resist any later... awkwardness, before trying to test it in such a serious way.

Kurt thought about it for a moment. The whole thing fit together, seemed to make perfect sense. Satisfied, he started typing out his message to Rachel about his upcoming Warbler audition, ignoring the vague, niggling thought in the back of his head demanding attention. _There will be plenty of time for drama later. And there will be drama, I'm sure..._

* * *

Kurt tapped his fingers against his leg, glancing over at Nick and Jeff, who were chatting amicably about some Crawford girls who'd stopped by the day before. Of course, practically the entire student body had either stopped to stare or surrounded them with friendly offers for aid. Kurt could only imagine the power that must have made those girls feel. He kind of envied that kind of power.

They sat on a bench outside the council room, awaiting their fates. Their solo auditions had gone well, as far as he was concerned. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" went off without a hitch. But Nick and Jeff were both talented guys, not to mention veterans who knew the "judges" better, despite Dave's briefings. Stiff competition, to be sure. But there was nothing now to do but wait...

Dave was muttering darkly to himself as emerged from the council room. "Nick, Jeff, you're moving on," he snapped with clear irritation. Fortunately, the two Warblers didn't seem to notice it at all, leaping to their feet and high fiving. "Hey! What the fuck is wrong with you two? Kurt's sitting right there!"

Jeff flushed. "Oh. Sorry about that."

"No problem," Kurt replied in a chipper tone. "You two just go on. You deserve it."

After some more perfunctory congratulations, Nick and Jeff wandered off. As soon as they were gone, Dave sat heavily on the bench next to Kurt, a stormy look still on his face.

"What's the matter?" Kurt asked calmly. "Don't like that I didn't get a solo?"

"No! I mean, yes! I... I mean, you were great! All that bullshit about you not fitting the mold. I don't know why..."

"Why Wes and David didn't give a solo to me after you asked them to?"

"Yeah! They promised they'd..." Dave stopped dead, gaping at Kurt, who was now glaring. "How did you know about that?"

"Funny thing about doors, David. Even the thick ones won't block sound if they're not shut all the way. And don't blame your friends. After you left, I told them to judge me impartially, according to their own standards."

"What? Why'd you do that?"

"Why did I do that?" Kurt hissed. "Why did _you_ do what you did? Did you think I _wanted_ to get a solo that way? As a favor you just give out like a benevolent emperor?"

"I... I didn't mean it like that… You... You've been missing your friends so much..." Dave stammered. "And the Warblers... I know how much you love singing, and..."

"For your information, I do _not_ want to accomplish my dreams through favors granted behind my back! I will get what I want through my own merits, or not at all! I will not be manipulated like some helpless puppet that can't move without your say-so! Are we clear on that?"

"Kurt, I..."

"I said, are we clear on that?"

Dave sighed. "Yeah, we're clear. I'm..."

"Sorry, yes, I know. At least this time you have something to be sorry about." Kurt smiled a little despite himself. "Although, I will admit that it's _somewhat_ sweet of you to have pulled your weight like that for me. I know you didn't like to do it."

"Definitely felt weird. But... I just wanted one good thing to happen to you. Just one, after all the shit you've been through the past few months." Dave sighed. "I just wanted for something to go your way for once."

"I met you," Kurt replied quietly. "That's a good thing."

Dave rubbed the back of his head, his eyes going anywhere except towards Kurt's face. "Thanks. I... I guess that is a good thing, isn't it? For me too, I mean. I made a great friend."

"Yeah." A moment of silence followed that not even the hustle and bustle of the Dalton school day seemed to penetrate. "Besides, it's not long to Sectionals. I prefer to have more time to perfect my solos anyway. I'm eager to see more of the Warblers' workings from the inside."

Dave let out a relieved breath. "Yeah, and you don't even have to put on a plain suit and pretend to be a student to do it."

Kurt laughed, playfully whacking Dave on the forearm. "Oh, shut up! God, am I ever going to live that down?"

"Not as long as I'm around." Dave's eyes were sparkling in the afternoon light.

"Well, then," Kurt said with a smile. "I hope that's a 'never,' then."

Dave nodded and returned the smile. "Yeah. Maybe it is."


	7. Special Education 2: What's Goin' On?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now canon REALLY goes off the rails...

Those who have only been in the audience of a major production have little conception of what goes on behind the seemingly sedate curtains concealing a stage. The closest they often get is the cacophony of the orchestra tuning their instruments before the first number. But to those who have been there, who have that experience, there's a buzz, a hum, a crackling _power_ not quite like anything else.

Dave was in the middle of a whirlwind. Stagehands and the odd performer hustled about. He knew Wes and David would have preferred he be with the rest of the group warming up and preparing, but Dave liked it better here. He was alone, yet not, drinking in the energy around him.

"La la la laaaaaaa la la la..." He frowned at his scale, then repeated it three more times before nodding in satisfaction. " _We don't need to escalate..._ " he sang softly, his harmony line sounding a little odd without a melody to combine with. It'd taken a while to advance the cause of this particular song; Wes declared that the Warblers "are non-partisan and non-political." But Dave's persistence in advancing its cause as a piece of musical art had finally won out. "... _For only love can conquer hate... You know we've got to find a way to bring some lovin' here today..._ "

His mojo was interrupted by a vague awareness of muffled shouting from the back, near the area of the green room. Dave frowned. He knew New Directions had it at the moment, and wondered if Kurt, who'd separated from the group to say hello to his friends, was somehow involved. Deciding to not risk ignoring it, he started towards the noise, which was interrupted at least once by a door slam.

As he turned a corner, stepping around a hot klieg light, he crashed into a smaller, softer body. _Kurt...?_ But no, this was definitely female, with long black hair and an annoyed expression that somehow felt like it was probably stamped permanently on her face. He couldn't help but shudder as she turned that sour expression towards him. "Watch it, Jolly Blue Giant," she snapped.

"Sorry, sorry..." She obviously wasn't one of the Hipsters, so this had to be one of Kurt's friends in New Directions. "So, uh, have you seen Kurt?"

"Yeah, Gaga Junior stopped by. He took off already, though, to look for his folks."

Dave smiled. "You must be Santana."

She rolled her eyes. "Brilliant deduction, Holmes. What, it was the Latina thing, wasn't it? Sure, why not? It's not like there are many of us in the middle of the bumfuck Midwest."

"Easy, there." Dave paused, not entirely sure he should continue. Some reckless instinct drove him on. "Is... everything okay with you guys?"

"What? Oh, sure. Usual bullshit drama. We'll get over it. If we don't, we don't deserve Regionals anyway." Santana shook her head in disgust. She looked up at Dave, as if actually seeing him for the first time. Her eyes raked up and down him in a way that made him uncomfortable. "Let's see, Dalton, freakishly big... You must be Karofsky, Kurt's new shiny object."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Oh, bravo, real eloquent, there. I mean, you're his mini-obsession this time around, his little pet project. He talks Mercedes' fool head off about your movies and your teaching him hockey and blah blah blah. Then I have to hear it through her at rehearsal, because she seems to think we hang on his every word like she does. _Madre de dios_ , it gets boring fast."

Dave swallowed, not exactly sure his mind was absorbing any of this, and if it was, which parts were getting through. He latched onto the few words he could actually process. "What do you mean, 'this time around'?"

"Fine, maybe that's not totally fair. You're not exactly Finn: the Sequel, since you're at least actually gay. But close enough." She smirked. "He actually thought he was being subtle. There's _nothing_ about Kurt that's subtle. I didn't even know him all that well then, and even _I_ could tell."

"Uh..." Dave's every nerve was screaming to get her off this particular subject, even if he couldn't exactly clearly think of why. Then again, his current state wasn't exactly lending itself to a lot of rational thought. "Have you guys had any... y'know, problems lately?"

"With Blaine Anderson, you mean? He's been quiet so far." Santana frowned a little. "Everyone's been, come to think of it. That big drama explosion back there was actually the most interesting thing that's happened in weeks as far as I'm concerned."

Dave grinned. "All the more reason you guys want Kurt back, I guess."

Santana shrugged. "Like I care. We picked up a replacement, and we weren't exactly friends."

"Then I guess that's it," Dave said casually. "Anderson wins, then. All your effort, and you couldn't beat one meathead football player. Shame. But I suppose that's not any of your business anymore..."

Santana's eyes widened. "Oh, no. You did _not_ just try amateur reverse psychology bullshit on _me_. I am _insulted_ , Karofsky. Kurt had better not told you that I would actually _fall_ for that kind of crap."

"Geez, I'm sorry. I just thought... Look, from what Kurt's told me, you have a halfway decent mind for scheming."

The cheerleader seemed mollified somewhat. "Better than _that_."

"Then you must have _some_ idea about how to help Kurt."

"Like I said, don't particularly care."

"But the rest of the group must miss him."

"Yeah, sure, they do."

"Then they'd be grateful if you helped out, I'll bet."

Santana snorted. "I care about what they think of me even less. Well, maybe one exception, but..." She frowned. "But that one exception... Hmmmm." A squinty, shrewd look settled on her face. "Yeah... Maybe..."

Dave wasn't sure what he was seeing, but he couldn't help but be a little nervous. "Santana?"

"Shh!" She held a hand up as her thought process continued. "Yeah... Yeah, that might be worth it..." She looked up at Dave with something that almost _wasn't_ contempt. "Thanks for the idea, Lurch. Good luck in the competition. You'll need it."

"But..." Santana walked off before Dave could finish his question, disappearing down a hall. He wiped some sweat off his brow as the patter of footsteps came up behind him.

"There you are!" David cried. "Come on, it's almost time!"

Dave nodded absently. "Sure. Coming." As he followed his friend and fellow Warbler, he couldn't help but wonder what exactly he had just unleashed...

* * *

Burt Hummel leaned back in his seat, sighing. It's not that he would've missed this, not for the world, especially now that he had _two_ kids performing in it, but that didn't mean that it was any more his cup of tea than it was the first time.

Take the first group, for example. Having a bunch of senior citizens sing a song that was popular when he was young reminded him a bit too much of what he now called in his mind "the Longest Time incident." Then there was the oddness of the divided loyalties thing. Which boy did he want more to succeed? That, at least, was easy: Kurt, without hesitation. But he knew that whichever one came out on top, there'd be at least a tinge of awkwardness at the Hummel-Hudson household, and if there was one thing Burt hated, it was awkwardness, especially among loved ones.

When the announcer introduced the Dalton Academy Warblers, it took Burt a moment to remember that yes, this was Kurt's group now. _You'd think I remember with the checks I've had to write,_ he thought ruefully. The curtain opened on a dimmed stage; he could see the shadowed outlines of the Warblers on their risers, though he couldn't quite make out which was Kurt yet. One of the three in front stepped forward as the lights went up, and he began to sing.

 _Mother, mother... There's too many of you crying..._ Burt recognized it at once; interesting choice. He wondered which of these children (and they were still children, as far as he was concerned) came up with it. As the other Warblers brought up their voices in support, Burt's heart leaped; there he was. There was his boy, looking happier than he had in a while. Yeah, Kurt belonged on stage. That much was clear.

Then the large guy next to the soloist began harmonizing; Burt recognized him at once as Kurt's friend Dave. _Huh. Not bad._ He wasn't quite sure why he was surprised, but he was. Maybe because he looked more the type to have been his son's tormentor rather than his supporter. But then, Burt himself had been one of _those guys_ for way too long. _Funny how life goes._

The third Warbler in the front then took over the next verse as the background singers snapped and swayed in tune. It was somewhat disturbing; sure, Kurt had done a lot of backup at McKinley, but seeing him now, in that blue blazer among all those other blue blazers... It just seemed wrong somehow. Burt always knew his son was made, was meant, to shine, and was he actually able to do that at Dalton?

 _At least he isn't being stalked,_ his inner voice reminded him. Burt tried to push the tension away from his mind. The Anderson kid at least seemed to be leaving Kurt alone, but the possibility was like a dark cloud hanging over everyone's head. He'd been talking a lot to Paul Karofsky lately about restraining orders. The process seemed simple enough, but with the Anderson parents in the mix, things were complicated immensely. Paul had groaned the instant he heard the names involved. "I won't lie to you, Burt," he'd said. "Getting a judge who isn't somehow connected to Roger or Elaine Anderson is going to be a tough hill to climb." The deliberation and evidence gathering that this made necessary was slowing things down to an infuriating level; none of them had so much as glimpsed a courtroom even after all this time.

But Paul Karofsky was still trying. God bless the man, he was still trying. "I understand how important family is," he'd told Burt during one of their first (and always free; Paul had insisted) consultations. "My ex-wife's dad is still a big part of my sons' lives, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Dave, in particular; they're almost more like best friends."

That brought Burt's attention back to the stage. The Warblers had added a few extra repetitions of the song's famed chorus lines, allowing for more time for a little vocal showing off and choreography with the three principle singers. The Karofsky kid really was good. But then, he supposed, anyone who was that close to Kurt probably would be. _Huh._ There was something about _that_ thought that sent an odd shudder through him, but why? He wasn't certain.

As the song came to a slow close, Burt reached over and held Carole's hand. She smiled at him and gave a gentle squeeze. _Whatever happens... At least I'm not alone. And neither is Kurt._

On stage, Dave Karofsky sang his heart out.

* * *

"What do you think?" Kurt whispered as the Warblers gathered on stage. The Hipsters and New Directions also took their places.

"I don't know," Dave whispered back. "Your friends were good." And they were. Sam and Quinn were wonderful in "Time of My Life"; who could tell that they'd broken up just days ago? And Santana in "Valerie"? Wow.

"They were. But so were you... we." Kurt straightened his tie as the announcer approached center stage. "I don't know... If we win, I'll feel guilty, like somehow I helped us beat them..."

"Well, you did. Would. Whatever."

Kurt smiled a little. "Not sure how I feel about that. But if they win, I'll be devastated, of course. It doesn't seem like there's any way around it."

It was then that both realized, to their surprise, that they'd missed a good deal of the announcement. "Here are the results...!"

* * *

"Okay, so I was wrong," Kurt said to Dave later in the former's room.

"Had to happen sometime." Dave ducked a crumpled piece of paper tossed in his direction. "But hey, maybe this is a sign."

"Of what?"

Dave shrugged. "Dunno. But doesn't it seem kind of... significant?"

"I don't see how. I don't believe in signs or portents or burning bushes... Unless I see someone running away with a match and some lighter fluid."

"Okay, okay... Still, it's weird that both we and New Directions are still in this. I wonder if it's because you made us better or you leaving made them worse?"

Kurt blushed a little. "Oh, stop that. I am not the center of the musical universe here."

"You have to admit, that's a lot of second chances for one competition. For us... for you."

"Maybe." He rested his chin on his arms, which were folded across his desk. "I wonder if I'll be able to take those chan... Oh."

"What?"

"Pavarotti. He's losing feathers."

Dave got up and looked over Kurt's shoulder. "Huh, he is. Poor guy."

"He hasn't been singing much either." Kurt's face turned stormy with worry. "What if he's sick or something?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dave said, clapping a warm hand on Kurt's shoulder. "He's probably still getting used to his new surroundings. A little TLC, and he'll be back to fighting strength before you know it."

"Well... What if this just isn't the place for him? It's not like he has much of a choice."

"I... I don't know. Lucky for him he has folks who can help him with whatever he needs. New cage, new seed, whatever. Sure as hell ain't alone. Right?"

Kurt exhaled. "Right." He felt a light squeeze on his shoulder.

"It'll be fine," Dave said softly, though Kurt couldn't tell who he was talking to, who he was trying to convince. "It'll be fine..."

* * *

Practically everyone who cared about the situation with Kurt thought that if only they could get a peek into Blaine Anderson's head, they'd be able to understand everything better.

They were, of course, so completely and utterly wrong that Blaine found it unaccountably hilarious.

The first few days after Kurt's transfer were a special kind of hell. Even with Kurt's destination shrouded in secrecy (though considering Dalton Boy's involvement, it wasn't hard to guess), Blaine considered dropping him a line with the Hotmail account or a call with that prepaid cell phone he'd bought. After all, with two hours separating them, Kurt might feel safe in blowing the lid off of... what happened. If not him, that big dude (whom Blaine eventually discovered was apparently named "Dave") could decide to do so whether Kurt wanted him to or not. He seemed like the kind to go off half-cocked that way.

But a few things stopped him. Even with Kurt gone, his Glee Club pals were apparently still on high alert. Puckerman especially looked about ready to kill at the drop of a hat. Blaine couldn't expect his own football friends to keep up their vigilance forever. Then there was his father. He'd done a fine job defending him to Sylvester, but the damage was done; even though Blaine was sure that his dad was absolutely convinced of his innocence, the fact that he had to assert it in the first place... Blaine had noticed his father giving him an odd look or two occasionally, asking more about his school days (more than his mother now!), and he was pretty sure he'd overheard dear old Dad talking to Figgins behind his back at least twice. And, of course, there was the Dalton administration. Blaine knew by reputation that they had some pretty heavy hitters, many of whom actually did not travel in his parents' social circles. Making waves was more complicated with them involved. Oh, sure, he could probably still get away with it, but there was still that tinge of risk that he could ill afford, given everything else.

Those were fine, rational reasons. But none of them were the real reason.

Somehow, he _knew_ now that Hummel wasn't going to spill the beans, and that he'd keep his pal Dave from doing so as well. After all, he'd had the golden opportunity in Sylvester's office, in a way that would've shattered the threat against him forever. But he didn't.

Why the fuck not?

He wanted to ask Hummel. He _needed_ to ask Hummel. But obviously that was impossible now, thanks to his own actions. So Blaine sleepwalked through his days and lied awake in bed during the nights, the same word ringing through his head: why?

And when he finally dropped off to sleep, he dreamed of locker rooms, of soft lips beneath his, and of wide eyes that shimmered with an undeserved compassion.


	8. A Very Glee Christmas: Of Love and Dreams To Share

Flying flavored ice was not an unusual sight in the halls of McKinley High School. What was unusual was the greeting that accompanied them. "Merry Christmas, losers!"

That was all the warning Mercedes, Tina, and Mike got before they were treated to several festive red and green streams of slushie flying towards them. Their final thoughts before impact, in no particular order, ran something like this:

Oh, God, no.

This is going to suck.

I shouldn't have bothered to shower this morning.

Then came the sting, of both sugar and cold, as they were soaked by the slushie showers. Mike was particularly unlucky; he'd just taken off his sweater, so his outer clothing was particularly absorptive. On top of that, he took the brunt of one slushie that was much more melted than the others. His shirt was completely sodden, causing it to cling tightly to his body.

The laughing began in earnest, of course. Tina wiped the ice crystals from her eyelids before opening them. Football team. Of course. And I was getting used to the quiet. Chris Strando high-fived Azimio Adams as Lonnie Waters tossed his empty cup into the air in triumph, neatly catching it as it fell. Huh. Where's...? Oh. There. Blaine Anderson was near the back, chuckling and slapping his friends on the back. It was a little strange to not see him front and center, but Tina didn't really bother to give it much thought. She was too busy deciding which bathroom to go to and resisting the urge to wring out her hair over their shoes. They really didn't need more trouble right now.

Blaine, for his part, was enjoying the sight of the three slush-saturated Glee clubbers. He was particularly… enjoying Mike and his wet shirt. Mike, for his part, was too busy with his chills and outrage to notice. "Funny," he sputtered. "Real mature."

"Tough it out, Chang," Strando laughed. "Sorry, I meant the other Chang. Or the other-other Chang?"

"And the tradition starts again, just in time for the holidays!" Waters crowed.

"Good job, fellas," Blaine said, tearing his eyes away from Mike.

"But you missed it!" Azimio said in a mock pitying voice. "We coulda had a cup all ready for you!"

"Next time, promise." As the slushied outcasts dispersed to fix themselves, so too did the football players, now that their victims weren't nursing their humiliation in public. Blaine wandered away towards his classroom, trying to kick the sight of pecs and abs out of his mind's eye.

Near her locker, half out of sight among the other students, Santana Lopez narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Huh."

WHAP! The impacts of stick against puck sounded like a series of gunshots. Kurt watched as Dave hit each of the lined-up pucks one after another with lightning speed. Each skidded into the net. Kurt applauded as Dave took a low bow.

The lake ("More like a large pond," Dave had said) was frozen over solid. Dave had told him that it was his favorite place to skate and practice when he could, even with an actual indoor rink a few blocks away. "But what about the ice?" Kurt had protested. "What if it breaks, and you... Or I...?"

"If it breaks," Dave had snorted, "I'd only sink about up to my chest. Come on, it'll be fun."

"But... I've... I've never..."

"Skated? Never know until you try. I know a guy with about your shoe size; we can borrow his skates."

Kurt had to admit, it was beautiful. The lake/pond was set into a copse of trees near the Dalton campus. The ice was clean and smooth, surrounded by hilly snowbanks. Dave brought his equipment, including the net, and demonstrated the basics of play while Kurt watched from the shore.

"Shouldn't you be rehearsing for that event you said you had to do?"

"Meh. I think I know the song pretty well. Besides, I can just fob it off on Trent if I need to." Dave grinned. "Besides, this is fun. It's not often I get to initiate a newbie to the wonders of the ice."

"You said you played in intramural leagues," Kurt said as Dave retrieved his pucks. "Ever thought of doing it professionally?"

Dave shrugged. "Dunno if I'm good enough yet. I figure I'll try it at the college level first, see how it goes."

"Otherwise, stick to mathematics?"

"Why not? At least maybe then I can get a teaching or research job or something."

"I don't know," Kurt grinned. "I can't imagine you spending hours in some lab crunching numbers."

"Hey, nothing wrong with that." Dave began to skate around the lake; Kurt couldn't help noticing how graceful his movements were across the ice. His large body wasn't ungainly or awkward here. "Y'know what I like about math? It's black and white. Your results are either right, or they're not. No interpretation, no ambiguity. It's just... what it is."

"Not much about life that's like that," Kurt said quietly.

"No... No, there isn't." Dave took large, lazy loops around the ice, then skated towards Kurt, and asked the question he'd been dreading. "Aren't you gonna join me?"

Kurt took an mistrustful look at the hard (very hard!) ice. "I don't know..."

"Come on. It'll be fun. I promise I won't let you fall."

Kurt gulped. "O... Okay. But you'd better not." Kurt stepped tentatively out onto the ice. The blade planted onto the cold surface firmly. So far so good. Another step, and...

The blade seemed to be impatient, because it slid out before he was ready. Kurt let out the most indecorous (and frankly, girly) scream as his arms windmilled. His skidding and flailing was suddenly interrupted by a firm pair of arms wrapping around his waist. "Whoa, there. Lesson number one: don't panic."

"I... I'm not panicking," Kurt panted. "I was... reacting. To the most terrifying feeling I've ever had in my life."

"Lesson number two: start slow. Slide forward on your right foot. C'mon, I'm here." Dave loosened his grip on Kurt's waist. "Try." Hesitantly, Kurt slid forward. "That's it... Now, the left. There you go! Just keep doing that... Watch it! Here, look at how I'm doing it... Just lift your foot when you shift to the other... Yeah, that's it...! That's it! See, look! You're skating!"

Kurt flew across the ice, Dave always close by. The cool wind blasted his face as he skated gently around the perimeter of the lake. "I... I'm doing it! I'm actually doing this!"

"This is amazing! You're picking this up really fast! You're doing great!"

"So, ah... How do I stop?"

Dave laughed. "That's a tougher one. I'll help you until you get to that level. Here." Dave changed position until he now held only Kurt's hand. "Practice steering next. I'll lead you. Follow me." Hand in hand, the two teenagers skated around the ice, first in large circles, then in tighter designs. A light snow started to fall, tickling their noses and clinging to their hats. Dave broke the silence with a small laugh.

"What?"

"You know what this reminds me of, don't you?"

"No, what?"

"Really, Kurt? No idea at all?"

"If I had one, I'd tell you. Give me a hint."

Instead of speaking, Dave began to sing, in his low baritone. " _Christmastime is here... Happiness and cheer..._ "

Kurt smiled and nodded. "Oh."

" _Fun for all that children call... Their favorite time of year..._ " Kurt listened as Dave continued the song, the only sound other than the soft skritching of their skates against the ice. The rest of the world could've been dead for all Kurt knew... Or maybe cared. There was just the lake. There was just the snow. There was just them.

Kurt's voice raised in harmony as Dave reached the appropriate lines. " _Sleigh bells in the air... Beauty ev'rywhere..._ " Dave's eyebrows raised in surprise for a second, but settled back into his smile. Their voices melded together as Dave playfully took hold of Kurt's other hand and began spinning him in a circle. To Kurt's disappointment, it was a short song, and they quickly reached its end. Their voices faded, yet Dave continued to spin Kurt around himself. Kurt could see Dave's smile turn into a mischievous grin.

"What?"

"You remember what happened at the end of that scene, don't you?"

Kurt's memory struggled for a moment. There were the kids on the ice, yes... Then Linus and Snoopy, and... The remembrance hit him with the force of a slushie. "Oh, no..."

Dave nodded, his grin growing wider, still spinning. "Oooh, yes."

"Don't do it!" Kurt tried to worm his hands out of Dave's, but the hockey player's grip was too strong. "Don't you dare...! David Karofsky, if you do this, I will never forgive...! Don'tAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" This last came as Dave abruptly let go of Kurt's hands. Screaming, Kurt slid backwards in a lazy arc. His flailing hands reached wildly for purchase that couldn't come. Bare seconds after the release (but it felt like ages), Kurt's skates hit the edge of the pond; he fell backwards, landing unceremoniously in a thick snow bank. All accompanied by the sound of Dave's hysterical laughter. "You...!" Kurt screeched. "You complete, utter, total bastard!"

From his prone position, Kurt could only see snow and bleak sky; he only heard Dave's skates, his voice growing louder as he approached. "Oh, come on, Kurt..."

"You could've killed me! I could've been killed!"

"In case you didn't notice, we're surrounded by snow banks. And you wouldn't have fallen on the ice, y'know. I timed it just that perfect." Dave's grinning face appeared above him. It was covered in thrown snow a second later. "Okay," he sputtered as he wiped away the cold slush, "I deserved that."

"You most certainly did!" Kurt huffed. He eyed Dave's proffered hand suspiciously. "What are you going to do now? Fling me into a volcano?"

"No more jokes, Kurt. Seriously. If you don't believe me, you can just lie there until spring." A silent moment passed. Finally, Kurt took Dave's gloved hand. In a moment, he was back on his feet (or skates) with surprising speed and ease. "There you go."

"I'm still not forgiving you," Kurt snarled as he brushed the snow from his sweater. "Next time, we are going to the rink, and that's final! You don't dare pull that stunt there!"

Dave grinned, seeing (even if Kurt didn't) the implications behind what he said. "Right. Whatever you say."

"And thank you for ruining the moment," Kurt muttered under his breath as he sat down and yanked off his skates.

"What?"

"I said, you're still a bastard." His boots back on, Kurt stood, grateful for the solid, non-slippery ground underneath him. "You know, there's one good thing about being as small and lithe as I am..."

"What's that?" Dave barely had time to register the snowball filling his vision before impact. Fuck, that's cold. He wiped away the snow to see Kurt grinning evilly, another snowball in hand.

"I can run faster than you can skate." He threw the second snowball.

"Oh, fu..." WHAP!

Kurt was red-cheeked and breathless as he ran into the lobby of Dalton's main hall. As he shook the snow off the cuffs of his pants, he was barely conscious of someone approaching. "Kurt! I was just about to look for you!"

He looked up in surprise. "Mr. Schue!"

"How are you doing, Kurt?" The teacher shook his former student's hand warmly. "I haven't seen you since Sectionals."

"Not that I'm not glad to see you, but... what are you doing up here?"

"Well, that's the thing... I was hoping to get your advice on something."

They turned as the doors flew open again. Dave entered, his hockey equipment and folded-up net under one arm, as he shut off the cold wind with his free hand. "Phew! I'm gonna get you for that, Kurt..." He stopped as he looked up. "Oh, hi. You're Kurt's glee club teacher, right?"

"Right. Will Schuester." The two shook hands. "Your name's Dave, isn't it? The Warblers were great at Sectionals."

"Thanks! We'll get you next time, though."

Will grinned widely. "You're welcome to try!"

"Believe me, we will." Dave turned to Kurt. "Hey, I'm going to put away my equipment. After that, I think I'm ready for more color coordination."

"Good! I'll see you in your room after I'm finished talking to Mr. Schue."

"Sure thing. Take your time. Nice meeting you, Mr. Schuester."

"Same here." The two watched as Dave tromped up the main staircase and vanished from sight. "Color coordination?" Will asked, amused.

"It's a long story," Kurt replied with a smile.

Will regarded the younger man's face for a moment. "You seem good. Happy."

"Yeah... I think I am." The thought was almost startling. Silly, considering his reasons for coming in the first place, but there it was.

"Dave's a big reason for that, isn't it?" Will asked gently.

That was another startling thought, but the answer was clear. "Yes. Yes, he is."

"Is he a friend, or... someone special?"

Kurt flushed. "Both, actually. The way you're asking it, more… a friend," he replied firmly. "But..." He thought for a moment; things that he wanted to dismiss before were bubbling to the surface. "But he's gay too. And I… care about him a lot. Maybe someday..."

"If you have anything to say about it?" Will grinned.

Kurt's flush deepened. "So. You said you wanted some advice?"

Will grimaced. "Yes, I have to buy a gift."

"That's nice. For whom?"

"You won't believe me when I tell you..."

It was the first Christmas for the newly united Hummel-Hudson family, so of course it was an active one. The smell of slowly roasting turkey seemed to fill the entire house, every hall was decked, and Kurt shuddered to think of how many garbage bags the tinsel would fill once the holidays were done.

Finn was busy playing one of his gifts on the Xbox 360 while his father helped Carole in the kitchen. The space under the tree was now bare, the floor littered with several small piles of wrapping paper. Not that the opening was done yet.

Kurt snuck to his room, gently shutting the door behind him. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. It only took two rings for someone to pick up. "Hey, Kurt."

"Hey, Dave. How's your mom's place?"

Kurt could almost see Dave shrug. "Pretty good. She and Dad are behaving themselves, at least, thanks to Grandpa Murray. Makes sense, since he's the one who insisted on this in the first place. Jack's busy on Skype with his girlfriend. She's home in Minnesota."

"How were the presents?"

"Not bad. Minimum of clothes, maximum of gift cards."

"You actually like gift cards? They're so impersonal."

"Hell, yeah, I like gift cards. It's like cash, only more holiday. I can buy whatever I want without having to stand in line to return shit. They're great!"

Kurt shook his head. "Oh, David, David… You still have so much more to learn."

Dave chuckled. "So… You got it?"

Kurt nodded out of habit, looking down at the small box in his lap. "Of course. Do you have yours?"

"Right here. Okay, ready…? Open!"

As Kurt carefully lifted the tape on the wrapping paper that covered his gift, he heard the sound of tearing over the phone. "Barbarian."

"So sue me for being excited. Lemme guess: you're gonna fold up the paper nice and neat and either stack it up in a big pile to put it in the garbage, or you're gonna stick it in the closet to reuse sometime and completely forget about it."

Kurt froze in mid-fold. "No," he said petulantly.

"Suuure. Right." A pause. "It's… a hockey puck. A… personalized hockey puck."

Kurt blushed, glad that Dave couldn't see it. "It's cheesy, I know. But at the same time, it seemed… you, somehow."

"So I'm cheesy, huh? Just kidding!" Dave added hastily. "Let me take a closer look... 'Property of David Karofsky, Future Stanley Cup Winner, Christmas 2010'… So you had the store look up what the Cup was, right?"

"Very funny, Dave. I'll have you know I've been paying attention." An anxious pause. "So… you like it?"

"I… I love it, Kurt. Thanks." Silence. "I don't hear opening."

"Oh! Right!" Kurt's hands tore open the paper box. "It's…" He pulled out a colorful wool scarf, base red with festive green and yellow patterns running across it. He turned it over in his hands; it even felt warm. "It's lovely. I'm just glad it's not one of your precious gift cards."

"Yeah, I figured you'd want clothes, but I didn't know any of your sizes. Seemed like a safe bet."

He wrapped it around his neck. "It's perfect… I mean, it fits perfectly. Thanks."

"No problem. That's what Christmas is about, y'know: trying to impress the fuck out of everyone else with your shopping insight." The two chuckled. There was another silence. "Merry Christmas, Kurt." A simple declaration, but the voice was practically a hoarse whisper.

Kurt fought not to read too much (or anything) into it. Instead, he settled for the only thing he could say, the only thing that would carry the kind of meaning he wanted. "Merry Christmas, Dave."


	9. The Sue Sylvester Shuffle 1: Heads Will Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, as this is "The Sue Sylvester Shuffle," this is gonna be pretty Blaine-heavy. And as far as I'm concerned, that's okay. One of the things I wanted to do was avoid some of the mistakes made with the canon Dave. Besides, I think Blaine's stronger presence here will make all parts, including Dave's, stronger as well.
> 
> Blaine's been one of the hardest parts of this whole thing. I did my best to extrapolate from what I/we know of canon!Blaine to the life he leads in this universe, but it's tough. No matter how you slice it, it's going to at least look OOC if only because he's so different. But does that matter, as long as the results are consistent with how he developed in "real life"? It's a toughie. Hopefully I've done the problem some justice.

Chris Strando was worried, a state which itself was worrying, because it didn't happen to him that often, and so it had to mean something bad. He generally didn't concern himself much about other people. Not that he was an asshole or anything (okay, if you had to think objectively about the way he treated some of his peers, fine, he was an asshole to them. But they deserved it), but the kinds of people he associated with-they could take care of themselves. His dad was a rough-and-tumble truck driver, his mom a military brat whose father treated her like "one of the guys." His little sister could take down guys twice her size thanks to tae kwon do (and indeed, she'd had to a time or two). Most of his friends were fellow athletes. All in all, they kicked ass, took names, and didn't cry about it. Nothing wrong with that; that's just the way they were.

So it was with trepidation that he approached his best friend as the team suited up for the game. "Hey," he said quietly.

Blaine stopped lacing his pads as he looked up. "What's up, Chris?"

What was up, indeed? Dammit, he had to be able to say _something_. He'd known Blaine Anderson for years. He'd been his best friend since the third grade. Even back then, Chris was a... large kid, frequently taunted for his weight. Practically the only boy who didn't mock him regularly was Blaine, something Chris never really understood. Why had he reached out? The dude's rich and white (okay, fine, half-white, half-Filipino, but the guy could pass easy); what did he know about being an outcast?

Whatever the reason, Chris knew he was lucky that he'd gotten on Blaine's good side before he switched from befriending the lonely to shutting them into lockers and pouring flavored drinks all over them. From that first day they met, when Blaine traded his cupcake for the gross licorice Chris's mom insisted on packing, they were inseparable. As they grew older, Blaine taught him how to be a _man_ , see his weight not as something holding him down, but as something to use against others, especially on the football field. Chris's parents definitely noticed the change, complimenting their son on his new confidence; even Vickie tossed him the occasional "you're less lame than usual these days."

So he should be able to ask a simple question, right?

Right?

"Uh… Good luck out there. We're gonna kick ass."

Blaine rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Great, yeah. Go team. Woo. Is that really all you had to say?"

 _No. There's shitloads more. But…_ "Uh… I… ran into your mom at the mall on Sunday." _Wow, that was dumb._

A shot of panic flared through Blaine's face, but was quickly suppressed - not quickly enough for a friend of almost a decade, of course, but pretty damn quick. "Yeah? And?" He returned to tying on his pads; if Chris didn't know better, he would've sworn that Blaine really didn't care about the answer.

"She, uh, asked me if there was anything going on with you lately."

Blaine's fingers froze. "And what'd you say?" he asked evenly, not even looking up.

"Nothing. I swear, nothing." Chris very carefully did not mention that his lack of response caused Blaine's mom to sadly nod her head, as if it had confirmed something for her.

Blaine visibly relaxed as he pulled on his jersey. "Okay, good. Because there's nothing going on with me. Life is swell. You know that, right?"

What did Chris know? Not a hell of a lot. Was it a girl? Blaine had broken up with his last girlfriend over a month and a half ago, and no one seemed to know of anyone since. Problems at home? As far as Chris could tell, Blaine's relationship with his parents was as good as it had ever been. Grades? Hah! Not with Blaine. He had it so easy...

"'Course. I know that."

"Good. Now stop acting so weird." Blaine rose. Panic unaccountably rose in Chris's throat.

"Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"You know you're my best bud, right? That I'd kill a guy for you?"

The expression on Blaine's face, as was so often the case, was unreadable. "Yeah, sure. C'mon, it's almost time." He tucked his helmet under his arm and started towards the door. Chris followed, his thoughts darker than ever.

He yearned for a problem he could just tackle to the ground. And since he was about to be presented with a full team of them, he was determined to work out his frustration every chance he got tonight.

* * *

Blaine Anderson loved to test himself, and as far as he was concerned, football was the ultimate test, World War III in a hundred yards. He turned up his nose at those who thought it was just about three hundred pound guys crashing into each other; they were just ignorant rubes who couldn't handle the strategy, the grace, the raw _cunning_ and snap decisions that had to go into every down. It required chess-like tactics, rapidity of thought, and a body tuned to fulfill every mental command. It required the complete package, and as far as Blaine was concerned, he was about as complete as it could get. Not that it was surprising; he'd worked hard, very hard, to get to where he was.

And God help anyone who stood in his way.

That's one reason why Hummel had to go. Fucking fairy. What right did he have being so self-righteous, anyway? How dare he just prance around McKinley with his clothes and his hair and his high-pitched voice? Someone had to show him what the real world was like. Someone had to show him that people like him were deviants and perverts and freaks. Someone had to show him a little preview of what life did to those who didn't belong.

Blaine was the perfect person to do that. And why not? Hummel was a burr in Blaine's shoe, the crack in the eggshell, the imperfection that threatened to break everything apart. Now that the threat was removed, things could go back to the way they were before. Why wouldn't they?

He tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he passed by Hummel's locker. He tried to ignore the flash of what couldn't have been guilt he felt every time a passing Glee Clubber glared at him. He tried to resist the urge to check out Hummel's Facebook page to find out how he was doing at Dalton from the little public information he could see (and similarly resisting the urge to vomit every time Hummel posted a new status on how he and his bestest buddy Dave were doing some gay shit).

If only that one nagging stupid question ( _Why? Why did you protect me?_ ) was answered. Then he wouldn't need Hummel anymore. He wouldn't think about Hummel anymore. He wouldn't wonder about Hummel, picture Hummel, yearn to talk to Hummel.

_"You're weak, like the rest of us. Scared, like the rest of us."_

He knew. How did he know?

" _He…_ we _know what you're going through._ "

" _You shouldn't be beating yourself up or hiding who you are."_

Blaine didn't want to remember those words, the desperation on Hummel's face as he begged Blaine to let him in. But he did. The memories kept sneaking into his mind at the most awkward times...

"Hey, Anderson, you listening?"

Like now.

The football team (or, at least, the offense) was huddled together somewhere around the 35 yard line, the spotlights glaring off their helmets and the roar of the crowd in their ears. They'd already clinched a championship berth, but this was the chance to keep their skills sharp and show everyone what they were made of.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening."

"All we have to do is run down the clock," Hudson continued. "We'll play it safe. Let's do Tight 9. I'll fake a handoff to Anderson before giving it to Jameson for the rush." Finn looked up, his eyes blazing through his helmet. "You can handle that, right, Anderson? You're pretty good at faking."

Blaine's breathing seemed to echo in his helmet. He still believed Hummel hadn't told anyone (but again, why why why not?), but the remark struck a little too close to home, however inadvertently. "You've got a lot of balls insulting me, Hudson, considering that bunch of fags you hang around with. Ever heard of glass houses and stones?"

Puck growled. "Watch your mouth!"

"And you, Puckerman. You used to be somebody. How's it feel now? If you'd been cool, we might've been able to help you with the whole baby thing. Too bad you had to throw in with the Pretty Patrol and turn your back on us."

"Guys...!" Mike Chang tried to futilely cut in.

"Fuck you, Anderson," Puck snapped. "You don't know the first thing about me or the Glee Club."

"We know enough, don't we, guys?" There were muttered agreements amongst the majority of the huddled players not in said club. "Hell, the whole school knows. This isn't Carmel. You actually think you can join that fruity club and get away with it?"

A loud, sharp whistle broke the conversation. Finn and the others straightened. "Tight 9," Finn snarled in a barely controlled temper. As the Titans got into position, Blaine met the eyes of George Peyton, the center. Blaine nodded; Peyton nodded back, and jogged forward to take possession of the football for the snap.

Finn called the snap count, his voice projecting over the tumult of the spectators. Blaine prepared to make his run, even though he knew what was about to happen.

Afterward, those who saw it happen would grudgingly admit that it was hard to see exactly what was going on and whose fault it was, which was a testament to George Peyton's skill and subtlety. It looked for all the world like a perfectly good snap. That is, until it seemed to change directions practically in mid-air, bouncing wildly off of Finn's outstretched hands. It spun almost directly into the arms of an oncoming linebacker. Puck took him down seconds later, but too late to prevent the almost picture-perfect fumble recovery.

Finn's voice was drowned out in the roaring, but his arms were flailing in frustration. Coach Beiste's voice, however, was not drowned out; she was shrieking her head off. Blaine gave Peyton a subtle low-five as the two passed by each other. Seconds ago, the game was over. Now it hung by a thread. And, of course, it was all Finn Hudson's fault... or so it appeared.

It was Blaine's usual M.O. A simple thing, and it had gone off as well as he could've hoped.

So why did he continue to feel so unsatisfied?

* * *

Blaine hadn't intended for the recovery to start a last minute game-losing drive, but what did he care? They had the championship game already, and it made Finn look even more like an idiot, which of course he was. The locker room afterward was like a crypt; the room seemed to have a line painted right down the middle, with the singing and dancing members of the team on one side, and the... normal ones on the other.

Before any of them had a chance to get more than their helmets off, Coach Beiste stormed into the room. Blaine swallowed; this was the one part of the plan he wasn't comfortable with. It was times like this he missed Tanaka; he was a predictable, easily manipulated idiot. But Beiste... She was a much tougher nut to crack. Blaine was certain that as much as she liked his skills on the field, she didn't particularly like him personally - one of the few faculty who didn't. That was always a wild card that Blaine was never quite sure how to handle.

"What the hell happened out there?" she demanded. "It was a routine play! You should've been able to do it with your eyes closed!"

"Sorry, Coach," Strando said, shrugging. "But Hudson..."

"Don't give me that bull! Peyton!" The addressed center nearly jumped out of his skin. "What was with that snap? What were you thinking? Why'd you screw it up so badly?" She looked into her player's fear-filled eyes. "You didn't do it on purpose, did you?"

"I knew it!" Hudson cried out. "Coach, Anderson put him up to this! I know he did!"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you can't take that me and the rest of the Glee Club know what you're really..."

"The Glee Club!" Blaine rolled his eyes. "Every fucking other word out of your mouth is about the stupid Glee Club. Give it a rest, already!" He turned to Coach Beiste. "I can't deal with him and his baseless hostility. I'm not taking another pass from this clown. I refuse!" There were rumbles of agreement from many of the other players.

Sam Evans stepped forward, glaring. "If you can't handle what we do in our spare time, that's your problem."

"It is when it gives the rest of us a bad name!" Azimio declared.

"Yeah!" Jermaine Andrews chimed in. "You think it does us any good when we're associated with a bunch of prancing..."

No one was quite sure who dove towards whom first, and when, but as the locker room dissolved into shouting and chaos, with Coach wading into separate the struggling "teammates," Blaine tried to enjoy his handiwork. But for once, all he could do was watch. Stare...

* * *

Cheerleading is all about timing, as is many things in life.

One particular cheerleader decided that she had waited and watched long enough. The time was now.

* * *

"Hey, stud." Blaine slammed his locker door shut to see Santana Lopez smiling at him.

"Santana." There was a pause. "What do you want?"

"What I want..." she purred, running a finger down the collar of his shirt, "is for you to take me out to coffee after school."

"Really." Blaine's mind was a whirl of satisfaction, glee, and suspicion. "What happened to all the 'no's you've been giving me since last year? Now you're the one approaching me?"

Santana shrugged. "A girl can change her mind."

"And what about your friends in the Glee Club? Aren't you betraying them?"

"Friends? Yeah, right. Besides, I'm already on the outs with them because I'm competing in cheerleading Nationals instead of the halftime show. Anyway..." She touched Blaine's nose playfully. "Seems like you could use a friend like me, especially right now."

Blaine thought for a moment. Certainly having Santana as a girlfriend couldn't hurt his rep. On the other hand, she definitely wasn't the type to take "no" for an answer when it came to the bedroom. On the other _other_ hand, refusing her now would be even more suspicious... Blaine's heart pounded. "Uh... We sort of have zombie practice today..."

"Tomorrow, then," Santana whispered in his ear. "Lima Bean? Four o'clock?" She flounced away without another word, leaving Blaine gaping in the space where she once was, wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Dave Karofsky looked over the array of clothes laid out across the bed. Shirts of every color and style, pants from jeans to dress, ties and scarves and even a couple of pairs of suspenders... It was like the basic essence of a department store laid out before him. He began to sweat.

"Well?" Kurt asked.

"Okay, okay, give me a minute!" Hesitantly, he reached out and grabbed a yellow collared shirt from the array. He looked up at Kurt, who watched with a blank, impassive face. Dave gulped, his mind racing. The pairs of pants seemed to all blur together in this tutti-frutti mix of cloth and buttons. He picked up one of them, and turned towards the full-length mirror that Kurt had found who knows where, holding shirt and pants against his body. He stared, trying to will the sight into a right or wrong answer. They remained just a shirt and pants. Shaking his head, he threw the pants back on the bed (which Kurt immediately reached out to straighten) and took up another pair, holding them up with the shirt. Finally, he nodded, turning back towards Kurt. "This?"

Dave's face fell as Kurt shook his head. "No, sorry. The colors are all right, but the designs are completely incompatible."

Dave threw the clothes onto the bed, groaning. "I'm not getting this, Kurt! I'm just not!"

"Relax, Dave. You've made a huge amount of progress. You just need more time and practice. You don't play hockey without practice, do you?"

"Yeah, but that's different." Dave paused. "By the way, 'do you believe in...'?"

Kurt sighed. "'Miracles.' Try something harder." He picked up the shirt that Dave had held earlier, and swept up another pair of pants. "Here, I would put these together. See how well they complement each other?"

Dave's brow furrowed. "Yeah... I think..."

"Can you explain why?"

"Nope," he replied immediately.

"Come on, Dave, you can at least _try_. Take a good hard look."

"It's because of the... stripes?"

Kurt beamed. "Yes! There you go! You're remembering my little lecture on patterns!"

"'Little'? I've had shorter lectures from Mr. Gardner about the Civil War." Dave was rewarded with a shirt tossed into his face. "You're gonna get that wrinkled if you keep doing that."

"Then don't compare me with Mr. Gardner. It's cruel." He put away the chosen outfit. "Now, try again with the rest."

Dave shook his head as he regarded the spread out clothing. "You're a real slave driver, you know that?"

Kurt shrugged. "That's what makes me such a good teacher."

Dave broke out into a smug smirk. "Okay, smart guy, try this one: who was the second overall draft pick this year who's now new right wing for the Boston Bruins?"

"Tyler Seguin." Dave looked up at Kurt in surprise; the latter was grinning. "You should've picked someone who's not so hot shirtless."

This time Kurt got the shirt in the face. Dave smiled, a radiant look that seemed to say a dozen deep things at once. It was gone, and his gaze back to the clothes, by the time Kurt, still sputtering with mock outrage, pulled the shirt off his face.

* * *

Chaos reigned in the McKinley High School Glee Club. This in of itself was probably not unusual. Hell, from what Blaine could tell, it was _typical_ ; he was starting to think that Berry, for one, was actually clinically _insane_. But this time it seemed particularly bad, considering that the football team was involved.

It was bad enough when Will Schuester and Coach Beiste announced that the _entire_ football team would be joining the Glee Club for a week. But when Jason Richmond made a crack about Rachel and Puck's performance of "Need You Now," a fracas resulted that made the locker room brawl look like a debate over parliamentary tactics at high tea.

Just like the incident at the game, this too failed to satisfy him the way it would've just weeks before. It was starting to annoy him. _What the hell do I_ want _?_ This was a question he had so far failed to answer.

Then came Schuester and Beiste's _brilliant_ plan of having them do the halftime show at the game, dancing to a mash-up of "Thriller" and "Heads Will Roll." They had just finished the first day of "zombie camp," as Beiste called it, with Chang and Brittany taking them through the first steps of the choreography. Blaine had started to zone out at first, but actually found himself (gasp!) _paying attention_ as the rehearsal wore on. He was already used to being agile on the field; turning that agility to dance seemed... natural somehow.

He was now alone in the locker room, freshly showered; his fellow players had already left while Blaine chatted with Mia Winters, who had great potential to become his next Cheerio conquest if the whole Santana thing didn't work out. The conversation had put him into a cheerful mood. He had to admit that "Thriller" was a bit of an earworm, so it was little surprise to him that he began singing it as he prepared to leave for home.

_They're out to get you... there's demons closing in on every side..._

Blaine bounced on his feet as he pulled on his shirt, his volume slowly increasing.

_They will possess you unless you change that number on the dial..._

He slammed his locker shut, twirling a full 360 on his heel. His voice rose, booming and echoing full through the room. Nothing interfered with the song. Nothing held him back. It was just him and the music.

_Now is the time... for you and me to cuddle close together..._

Here Blaine punctuated the line with a high-pitched, Jackson-esque "ow!"

_All through the night I'll save you from the terror on the screen... I'll make you..._

He spun again, only to come face to face with Will Schuester. The song choked in his throat with a yelp as he jumped back, startled. Schuester was leaning against the side of a bank of lockers, his arms crossed, a small smile on his face.

"I can't believe this is happening again..."

"Huh?" Blaine swallowed. "Uh, what are you still doing here, sir?"

"I just helped finish cleaning up on the field. I was passing by in the hall, I heard you, and..." The smile dropped off Mr. Schuester's face as he straightened his back. "Blaine... I have to tell you, ever since Kurt transferred, I've been paying... more attention to my students. I suppose I realized just how much I failed Kurt as his teacher, and I've been making it a point to listen to what _everyone_ has to say, not just the popular kids. And..." He sighed. "I didn't realize the kind of reputation you have. The one that the teachers here don't know about... or just ignore. I suppose I'm guilty of it myself."

"Mr. Schuester, I..."

He held up a hand. "Please. Let me finish. At the same time, I'm hoping that this collaboration between the football team and the Glee Club will help both of you understand each other better. And I think that'll be much more likely if someone from the football team were to step up and sing one of the leads during the halftime show. I want that someone to be you."

"Me?" Blaine squeaked.

"Yes, you. You have a terrific voice. And you showed out there today that you're pretty good at dance. If you focused the energy you spend on bullying the unpopular kids on performing instead... I think you could go really far."

Blaine's eyes widened. "S-seriously?"

Mr. Schuester nodded. "Besides, if you could show your teammates your willingness to be in the spotlight like that, I think they'd better appreciate what their peers in the Glee Club do." He paused. "It's up to you. But I really think you should be sharing your gift."

"I..." Blaine tried to remember the last time he was speechless. But he couldn't, for the same reason he couldn't seem to speak.

"Why don't we talk about this tomorrow?" Mr. Schuester turned to go, but stopped, and turned back. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about your talent, you know. No one should be ashamed of who they are."

He left, leaving Blaine alone in the locker room once more, gaping at empty air.


	10. The Sue Sylvester Shuffle 2: Deal With the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear for when everything I've written about Blaine's parents and home life gets Jossed. I know it's an AU, but I did want to stick close to "reality." Names especially; I had to give them names for obvious reasons, but I know that'll be the first thing Jossed, and it annoys me. Ah, well, that's how far back the divergence goes; Dad got a different name, so that ended up affecting his wealth and who he married! :)

Ever since he was a kid, Blaine had known he was different. No, not in _that_ way; he wasn't gay. But he knew that his parents' wealth and privilege put him on a different plane than that of his peers, no matter who he was or what he did. Maybe if they weren't so rich or active in their own lives, things might've been different. But that was just the way life worked.

After all, being a "have" gave one certain... responsibilities, not to mention an image to uphold. It was a lesson he saw in action every day with his parents; he couldn't believe sometimes that the people he interacted with at home were the same ones who had their photos taken for the society pages and made their speeches at those $5000 plate fundraisers.

There were times he tried to remember the kind of conversations he had with them, especially his dad. But they all seemed to fall into particular themes. Like his choice of college...

"Other schools? I wouldn't bother, son; you're going to be a Yalie, like your old man. After all, my pull with the alumni association and administration will make it far easier on you than any other choice. Why waste that kind of opportunity? Plus, it's kind of a family tradition, as you know..."

...Or his major...

"I've already talked to an old friend who's in charge of the pre-law program. He thinks you're a shoe-in. I think you'd be doing yourself a huge disservice not to take advantage of this, Blaine. I've always known you had the right aptitude for the profession..."

...Or even his extracurricular activities...

"Oh, all that arts stuff is fine, but don't you want to get into sports? One of my big regrets from when I was your age was not trying out for them. Why not football? You like watching it on TV, don't you? And you know how that'll look on your resume. I would've been pretty good myself, let me tell you..."

Looking back on it, his attending McKinley at all, instead of Dalton or some other fancy-schmancy prep school, was nothing short of a miracle. Blaine often wondered what his mother said (and why she even bothered) that managed to convince his father to change his mind. He could use ammunition like that.

Blaine was shut up in his room, glued to his laptop. He'd recorded himself singing, and was playing it back; it seemed... well, it seemed _okay_ , but for all of his arrogance, he wouldn't, couldn't, pretend that he knew what a good voice sounded like. Come to think of it, did Schuester really know what a good voice sounded like either? He let Hudson in, after all. (Then again, what did Blaine know about Hudson's voice? He never really paid much attention to those tedious Glee Club performances.)

He closed his eyes, imagining himself on that field, the voice emanating from his laptop instead blazing across the field. As the clip finished, Blaine opened his eyes again, his heart pounding.

That evening, at supper, the conversation went on much as it usually did. "Could you pass the pepper, Mom?"

"Of course, sweetie." She handed over the shaker with a graceful motion.

"School going all right?" his father asked.

"Just fine, sir. No problems."

The elder Anderson nodded. "Good to hear."

A brief pause, only filled by the clinking of silverware against china. "Uh, I suppose you two still aren't going to make it to my game?"

Elaine Anderson sighed. "Oh, Blaine, you know how much your father and I want to go. But this fundraiser is extremely important to the charity, and the date's been set for almost four months. It's just bad luck, that's all."

His father nodded agreement. "Damn shame, not being able to see you win that championship ring. Quite a piece of jewelry to show off to your future employers." He took a sip of his soup. "But Sunday night, you, your mother, and I are all going out to eat to celebrate the victory. Then you can tell us all about it. Don't leave a single detail out, you hear?"

"Yes, sir," Blaine lied, sighing in relief. In that moment, he knew that his decision was clear.

* * *

"Anderson?" Finn asked quietly in disbelief. Artie nodded, paying little heed to the stream of students that occasionally bumped into his wheelchair as they passed in the packed hall.

"Yeah. Mr. Schue said that he agreed to split the 'Thriller' parts with me."

The quarterback shook his head. "Anderson... Can he even sing?"

"Dunno. Mr. Schue seemed to think so. He must, or he wouldn't have let him in the first place."

"Geez, should _we_ let him? I mean, he's the reason Kurt left McKinley."

"I don't think we have much of a choice," Artie replied. "The whole point of this thing is to get us to work together. Even if we don't want him to, Mr. Schue and Coach Beiste will make us."

"Hey, Hudson!"

"Speak of the devil..." Artie muttered under his breath. Blaine jogged up to the pair.

"What is it, Anderson?"

"Did you hear the good news? The halftime show just got 90% less lame."

"Yeah, I did. Think you can keep up with Artie?"

"I don't think I'll have much trouble," Blaine grinned. "Hey..." Here his voice lowered a few notches. "I was thinking... The halftime show's pretty important, and all our reps are on the line. Maybe we should do some kind of warm-up number. Just to make sure we're all on the same page. I'm not going to go out there just to be humiliated because we weren't a team."

Artie and Finn exchanged a startled glance. "Uh..." the latter said eloquently. "Sure... I guess. What kind of warm-up number?"

"Well... I was looking up classic rock... Research, y'know... And I found this song I figured might be appropriate..."

* * *

Santana was, of course, a full fifteen minutes late when she finally entered The Lima Bean. She'd already texted him with her coffee order (to be paid for by Blaine, of course), so she immediately sat opposite the football player, taking a delicate sip from her cup. "Still hot," she remarked in mild surprise.

Blaine smiled. "Being 'fashionably late' is a strictly amateur hour trick, Santana. So I didn't order until three minutes ago."

She nodded in grudging respect. "Very good."

"So." Blaine leaned over the table. "You and me, huh? After all this time? I guess it was inevitable, wasn't it?"

"In a way. Like I said, I think you could use a friend. One who'll help you keep your secret?"

Blaine's mouth twitched. "Secret?"

"That you're gay."

The shop buzzed at a dull roar with activity and active discussion all around them. But to Blaine's ears, the silence that crashed upon him was deafening. "That's ridiculous," he burst out. "Who's been telling you that? Why on earth would you think...?"

"Oh, stop insulting my intelligence. No one told me a goddamn thing. I have eyes, you know." Santana took a long drink of her coffee, luxuriating in the admittedly well-suppressed panic she saw in Blaine's eyes. "Next time Mike Chang plays wet t-shirt contest, you really should pick your jaw up off the floor before someone notices."

"..." Blaine tried to get his throat working again. "I... You're crazy... that doesn't mean a thing..."

"Nice try, but I've been watching you closely for a while now. Been asking some... questions of your exes. Oh, sure, I'd heard some things that made me wonder before, but I just thought that was because of a _pene pequeño_ issue. But now... believe me, _I know_."

"So you spread a rumor. Who cares?" Blaine finally declared, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "I'll just tell everyone you're lying to hurt me. Everyone knows what a vicious, backstabbing whore you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Santana smirked. "Anyway, they may not believe me at first. But can you keep _everyone_ from asking questions? Maybe asking the same ones of the same ex-girlfriends that I did? How long do you think it'll be before everything comes out then? Especially when all I need to do is write one little anonymous e-mail to Jacob ben Israel?"

Blaine rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing that was only matched by the rabbit-beats of his heart.

"Well?" Santana prompted. There was another silence.

"Fine," he whispered. "Fine." This time, the word was firmer. "What do you want? Money?"

Santana burst out into giggles, patting his hand as though he'd told some particularly hilarious joke. "Money?" she repeated. "Oh, God, thanks for the laugh; I needed that. No, no. What I want is to offer you a... partnership." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Do you know what a beard is?"

Blaine paused. "Yeah. You're offering...?"

Santana nodded. "If anyone's suspicious of your little hard-on for Hummel - and don't think I haven't wondered about _that_ \- you think they'll still be entertaining it once I tell them what a tiger you are in bed? Like you said, I'm a whore, so they'll believe me, especially when I break out the... intimate details."

"You... you'd do that? Why? What's in it for you?"

"Ah, thought you'd never ask. You're going to help me get Kurt back to McKinley..."

Blaine's eyes widened. "What? I thought you said you didn't care..."

"My reasons are my own. Be nice, and I'll share one of these days. The other thing I want is to win prom queen."

"But... that's not for months! Why are you worrying about that now?"

Santana sighed. "Because, Anderson," she said slowly and condescendingly, as though explaining basic math to a particularly stubborn child, "you've been a complete creep, and making Kurt feel safe again and overhauling your image is going to be a slow, painstaking process. We need to start now."

"And my image needs overhauling why...?"

"Because we all know you've got the popular kid vote locked up. But the losers vote too, and we're going to need the crossover." She took Blaine's hand into hers. "But don't you worry your curly little head off. Auntie Tana has a plan for that."

And she told him. By the end of her recital, Blaine's frown had deepened. "You're kidding."

"Not about this, I'm not."

"The whole thing sounds... lame."

"It is, but it's the best way to get the overall popularity we'll need."

Blaine shook his head. "But if I do this, my rep will actually get _worse_."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. Look, I wouldn't be suggesting this if I didn't think it'd work. Without your popularity, you're useless."

"Useless to you, you mean."

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Santana stared at him grimly. "Let me put it this way. You have two options: you can go along, and maybe make up for what cred you lose among those idiots you think are your friends with the props you get from the teachers, not to mention the geeks and other zeroes you look down on. Besides, being led around by the nose by a girl is _very_ hetero." She paused. "Or you can get up and walk right now, and I'll get the rumor mill in motion and you'll lose _everything_ , once everyone realizes how huge a hypocrite you are. Your choice."

"Some choice." Blaine squeezed Santana's hand, surprisingly gently considering his stormy face. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll do it. _Darling_."

Santana gave him a dazzling smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it, _sweetie_? Now, let's nail down the practical stuff. I have an uncle who runs a sporting goods store, and..."

"Ooooh, no. Let's stop right there. If I'm going to be risking my clout at McKinley, I am _not_ going to do it looking like an idiot."

"So what do you suggest?"

This time it was Blaine who broke into a grin. He reached into his pocket, taking out a leather wallet. His fingers dipped inside, pulling out a slick black plastic rectangle. "I suggest a high limit credit card whose charges only an overworked accountant looks at." Santana's eyes lit up with greed. She snatched the card from him, staring at it as if seeing her own ideal reflection in it. "Try not to drool on it."

She looked up with a Cheshire cat smile. "Oh, this is gonna be a lot more fun than I thought, _honey buns_..."

"Okay, if you're going to be my... beard..." He choked a little on the word. "I have to insist on no more vomit-inducing nicknames, okay?"

Santana's smile turned poisonously sweet. "Whatever you say, snookie." Blaine snorted.

* * *

It was a cold, blustery afternoon when the McKinley High School Titans performed "She's Not There". Finn and Blaine alternated stanzas, sharing the choruses as Artie and Sam backed them both up on harmony. Several times throughout the performance, Blaine caught Finn giving him wide-eyed looks. If nothing else happened, seeing that surprise was well worth it.

After the song ended and Mr. Schuester sang their praises, the group filed out of the auditorium. Blaine was about to follow, but he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "Evans?"

"Hey..." Sam's face scrunched up, as if he were unsure what his next words would be, an action made even more surreal by the zombie make-up he still wore. "I just wanted to say that you were good. Really."

Blaine blinked. "Uh... thanks?"

Sam sighed. "Look, we both know you're an asshole..."

"Oh, I fully acknowledge _that_..."

"But you're a talented asshole. You got a voice on you."

"Thanks again, Evans, but I'm not sure why you're telling me this...?"

"Both Coach and Mr. Schue say we're supposed to be working together. And the better we get along, the better we'll work together."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "And you're hoping that Hummel will come back if I'm converted to the Glee Club cause too?"

Sam had the grace to actually look a little ashamed. "We gotta do what we gotta do," he said quietly.

"Yeah." The silence descended again. "Well, for what it's worth... it was kind of fun." To his surprise, he found himself actually meaning it.

Sam, however, didn't know that either way. He shrugged. "Sure. I'm going to get this makeup off."

"Yeah, same here. Later." Blaine left without another word as he reflected. _That was the longest conversation with Evans I think I've ever had..._ As he walked down the halls, he saw a knot of red lettermans ahead. "Hey, guys! What's...?" He stopped cold as the group turned towards him. Their hair and fronts were dripping wet; the makeup on a couple of their faces were running down their necks in colored rivulets. "What happened...?"

"The hockey team!" George Peyton burst out. "The fucking puckheads! They slushied us, Blaine! Slushied! Us!"

Blaine gaped. "They... what...?"

"It's this halftime show crap," Jermaine Andrews declared. "It's made them grow balls!"

"We can't do this, Blaine," Chris Strando declared. "We can't. We'll all be pariahs for sure."

"Wait, hold on!" Finn shouted. "You guys can't back out now!"

"Watch us," Peyton snapped.

"What about the championship?" Mike Chang asked. "You know Coach won't let you play if you quit now."

"Then I guess we aren't gonna be playing," Strando rumbled quietly. As they talked, the formerly unified group split again, Glee Club versus non-Glee Club. The latter group began stalking away. Strando turned towards Blaine. "C'mon. We've had enough."

Blaine blinked, his expression and voice both still dazed. "What...?" There was a long pause. Strando's expression soon fell into a confused frown.

"Blaine?"

"W... Oh. Yeah. I'm coming." As he followed his friends, he took a look back at the Glee Club contingent. Blaine had no idea what he looked like at that moment, but their angry faces turned confused at what they saw. He quickly turned back and hurried away without another word.

* * *

Dave had often been teased lightly by the other Warblers for his musical tastes; Thad once called him "a crusty old man" for _daring_ to listen to artists whose faces did not grace teenagers' bedroom walls. Not that he was offended, of course; he knew it was just jokey retaliation for his efforts to turn the Warblers away from their somewhat single-minded obsession with the contemporary Billboard Top 40. So he couldn't really begrudge them returning to their "roots" once in a while.

At least "Bills, Bills, Bills" was recorded before 2005. Nonetheless, he was more than glad to join Kurt and the others in harmony as Nick took lead. Dave knew he was far from a Beyonce in almost every conceivable way.

Not long after, they joined Mercedes and Rachel for coffee. Though he'd heard quite a bit about the latter from Kurt, it was the first time Dave had met Rachel in person. He thought he was prepared for the real thing, but he was actually quite mistaken.

"Is she for real?" he whispered to Kurt at one point while she was busy reciting the events of the previous few days in agonizing and dramatic detail, complete with sweeping hand motions.

"Scary, isn't it?"

"...But with the trouble they've been causing, it's little wonder everything is in disarray. And now they've all quit! Haven't they ever heard of 'the show must go on'?"

Kurt blinked. "Wow. That's..." He struggled to find the right word. "...something."

Mercedes nodded sagely. "Both Mr. Schue and Coach Beiste are scrambling now. Neither of them have enough people to do what they need to do. I have _no_ idea what's gonna happen on game night."

"Wait a second, wait a second..." Dave shook his head, his mind still echoing with one particular portion of the whole recitation. "Anderson was willing to sing? And he was _good_?"

"I'm as surprised as you are," Rachel said. "Though I appreciate the layer of tragic irony it adds. Becoming what you hate... It's such a classic storyline."

Dave and Kurt couldn't help but exchange a glance. "It definitely is," Kurt rasped in a somewhat strangled voice.

"Funny thing is... he was liking it," Mercedes added. "That's what the guys seemed to think, anyway. Can you imagine Anderson in the Glee Club?"

Kurt shuddered. "No, thank you. I want to get to sleep tonight."

"You're still coming to the game, aren't you?" Mercedes asked.

"Of course. Finn's still going to be quarterback either way. Although without a team around him..." Kurt turned to Dave. "Hey, do you want to come?"

"I dunno... Football's not exactly my thing..."

"It'll be fun! We'll all go out to dinner with Finn and the others afterward, so we can make a night of it. They've been dying to meet you anyway."

Dave raised an eyebrow at this, but eventually nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

Kurt's face burst out into a smile; he didn't even see Mercedes and Rachel exchange their own glance at this. "Great! We'll drive down Friday night; I'm sure Dad won't mind if I take the couch while you..."

"Stop right there, Kurt. I'm couch material, and you know it."

Kurt eyed him up and down, an act which turned Dave beet red. "Not if you're anything like Finn. Let him nap even half an hour on an average sized couch, and his neck and legs ache for days."

"Seriously, I'll be fine on the couch. Really. I'm not as massive as I look. Though no offense..." Dave sipped at the dregs of his coffee as he turned back to the two girls. "Right now, it sounds like the whole thing is shaping up to be a complete disaster."

Rachel shrugged. "No, it's fair. But we'll turn it around."

Dave couldn't help but grin. "Now _that_ I'm interested in seeing."

* * *

Over the past few eventful days, Blaine was starting to come to a conclusion, one that chilled him to the bone. He'd driven away Kurt Hummel because he wanted to keep his image, his very sense of self, from cracking, to keep the tiniest flaw from forming.

But it was very clear now: he was far too late for that. He had been from the start.

He felt extremely foolish to not have seen it before, actually. It had been over the instant that locker room… incident happened. If there was ever the chance he could have kept himself together, kept his life _perfect_ as it was before, he would never have had to resort to the measures he had in the first place. It was so simple and logical that Hudson could've seen it.

That was why his trick at the last game and the resulting fights were so unsatisfactory. That was why he'd given in to that wild urge to suggest the warmup number. That was why he was letting himself enjoy the singing, the dancing. Because on some level, he knew that his efforts were futile, that there was no going back to the way things were. On some level, he knew that all that was left was damage control and dealing with the consequences.

It was a scary, almost tragic realization. But at the same time, Blaine Anderson had never felt so free in his life.

But that left the biggest, the hardest, the scariest question of all.

Now what?

* * *

"The girls?" Dave burst out. The Hudson-Hummel dinner table conversation had been low key, seeing as how the main course had recently been served, but the outburst brought all other small talk to a screeching halt. "They... they're filling in for the rest of the football team?" Dave continued in a quieter voice, but with no less disbelief.

Finn nodded. "I tried talking Rachel out of it, but she threw the whole 'show must go on' thing in my face. They're determined, man."

"But... aren't they going to get hurt?"

"They said they're just there so we can take the field. They figure they'll just lie down once the play starts. Except Lauren. She's really psyched to get in there."

"Wow." Dave shook his head, taking one last bite of steak (specially grilled in celebratory anticipation of Finn's championship run in less than 24 hours). "That's... just... wow."

"That's all right, Dave, you can say it," Kurt said reassuringly. "The Glee Club is insane. I know it; we all know it."

"Hey!" Finn gasped in only half-mock hurt.

"Even you?" Dave joked.

Kurt lit up with a half-smile, half-smirk. "Oh, especially me."

Dave gave Kurt a light punch on the arm. "I'd better watch out then. People like you are dangerous."

"Oh, yes, very dangerous. Wait until I break out my sai."

Both laughed uproariously as Kurt's hand brushed against Dave's shoulder. Neither saw Carole raise an eyebrow and cast a questioning glance at her husband. Burt returned the glance with a shrug.

"So, Dave," Carole cut in, "how's your father?"

"He's fine. Oh, Mr. Hummel, Dad says he's made some progress. He'll update you next week."

Burt nodded. "Tell him thanks for me."

"Will do."

"Hey, Dave, I gotta rest up for tomorrow," Finn said, "but before I get to bed, want to play TF2 for a while?"

"Hell, yeah. I was feeling like kicking some ass."

"You should see him, Kurt," Finn enthused. "He plays the best Sniper I've ever seen. He's taken headshots I still can't believe. Boom!"

Kurt winced. "How... charming."

Carole rose. "Looks like we're ready for the pie...?"

"Oh, yeah!" Finn cried, leaping from his chair. "Wait 'til you taste this, Dave. You'll never eat anyone else's pie again."

"Finn, Dave, do you mind helping me serve?"

Dave got up. "No problem, Mrs. Hummel." The three retreated into the kitchen, leaving father and son at the table.

"So..." Burt began.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "So...?"

"Dave's been a good friend to you, hasn't he?"

"Yes... What's your point, Dad?"

Burt sighed. "Come on, kid. I think we've been through this at least once before. I can tell: you want something from him more than just friendship, don't you?"

Kurt swallowed. "So what if I do?"

"Look, Kurt, no good is going to come of just keeping those feelings inside. You want my advice? You should tell him what you want. Both of you deserve that."

Kurt shook his head, as if in denial. "It's complicated, Dad..."

"Yeah, well, emotions usually are. But they're also the most rewarding to work out. Believe me, I know." Burt smiled a faraway smile, and Kurt couldn't help wonder who his father was thinking of at that moment; he felt a little bad for hoping it was his mother. "I won't pretend to know everything that's going on. I'm just saying that if you want to guarantee movement, you'll have to take the initiative."

After a long moment of thought, Kurt finally nodded. "Thanks, Dad. I have a lot to think about..." At that moment, the rest of the dinner party returned with hands laden in plates of pie and ice cream. "But right now, _that_ is all I can think about. God, I'm going up three sizes just looking at it."

"That mean I can have your share?" Dave cut in.

"No! Keep your grubby mitts to yourself, prep school boy!" In moments, the laughter was smothered under the sounds of chewing and slurping. Watching his son and Dave joke and jab, Burt Hummel couldn't help but pray to every god he could think of, and the spirit of his late beloved Elizabeth, that Kurt would take his advice, before it was too late…


	11. The Sue Sylvester Shuffle 3: Scoring

As the McKinley High Titans (and their scabs) filed into the locker room, there was a palpable strain in the air. The benched players watched with their hands in their pockets and blank expressions as their teammates suited up.

"What are you guys doing here?" Puck growled.

Strando shrugged. "We want to watch you jackoffs fall flat on your faces?"

"I can't believe you'd throw away the championship for something so stupid," groused Artie.

"And I can't believe you're actually putting your girlfriends on the field," Jermaine Andrews countered. "Don't blame us if one of them ends up in the hospital."

Blaine's hands twitched in the pockets of his letterman. He thought about the rush of sprinting down the field, dodging guys twice your size, carrying that precious ball into the end zone, the back slaps and cheers. He thought of his voice, sailing high above the noise of the crowd, all eyes and ears on him. The two scenarios felt less dissimilar than he'd thought.

"Well, we've got a game to win." Finn put on his helmet grimly. "If you're not gonna join us, get out of the way."

The gathered ex-first stringers did so, watching as the others filed out of the locker room. Blaine took a step forward before remembering himself. As the last of them disappeared, Strando shook his head. "This I gotta see."

"I dunno," George Peyton muttered. "This could just end up embarrassing us just by being associated with this."

"Then what do you want to do?" Andrews countered. "Perform in front of everyone? Either way, we lose. At least this way maybe we keep some of our dignity."

"Dignity is overrated." The surprised group spun towards the source of the words, but Blaine hardly seemed to notice; he was too busy staring off into space.

"Blaine?"

"I'll catch up with you guys later." With that, he turned on his heel and vanished from the locker room.

"What the hell is his deal?" Peyton asked.

"Wish I knew," Strando replied quietly.

* * *

"Oh, God, it's even worse than I thought."

"C'mon, Kurt, they're not doing too bad... all things considered..."

"Believe me, Dave, this isn't exactly a typical high school football game."

"Oh, I already knew _that_..."

"They're setting up for the next play... I can't watch...!"

"Whoa... Is that girl... actually running?"

"Wha... She is! Tina! Tina, look out...!"

A groan of shared pain rang on every side of the stands.

"Ohmigod! She's hurt! Poor Mike, I can't imagine what he's... Is she okay?"

"She looks okay... Kind of. I've seen worse on the ice, and they're usually fine."

"But those are _boys_ , Dave. Oh, Tina..."

"You can check on her in a bit. It's almost halftime... You think they're still going to do the show?"

"I have no idea... I wish I knew..."

* * *

Blaine, too, wished he knew; specifically, he wished he knew where his legs were taking him.

He'd been pacing the halls up and down, his mind wavering between one option and the other. One was safety, the other risk. Classic dilemma, really, one he'd faced many times before. So why was this one so difficult?

On his next length, he nearly ran into Noah Puckerman, jogging towards the locker room. "Watch it, Anderson!" he snapped.

Blaine stared at him blankly. "Halftime already?"

"Yeah, just about. Finn wants me to convince you assclowns to change your minds."

"Uh, do you _not_ remember what happened to you the last time you tried to convince us of something? Why would that change now?"

Puck's mouth moved, as if he were speaking, but nothing came out. Then: "Fuck you, Anderson." He began stalking off; in that moment, the decision blazed into Blaine's mind.

"You want some advice?"

Puck slowly stopped, turning back towards Blaine. "About what?"

"About what you can say to make them change their minds, rejoin the team for the show. They're my friends too, y'know. I know how they think."

Puck frowned, staring at Blaine as if seeing him for the first time. "Why? Why would you care?"

 _Good question._ Blaine sighed. "I guess... I just want to do something _I_ want for once. Besides, I've got some insurance now..."

"I didn't understand any of that."

"And you don't need to. What you need is a ghost speechwriter." The old Anderson smirk came back to his face. "And buddy, you have the best."

Puck raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Why the fuck should I trust you?"

"Do you have a choice? Could I possibly make the situation any worse than it already is?"

"It's you; you probably can."

"Okay, fine, I can. Just not _that_ much worse. At least hear me out. What do you have to lose? Just listen to me, and you'll be fine. Here's what you should say..."

* * *

Kurt was bouncing in his bleacher seat. "What's wrong?" Dave asked. "Getting freezer burn on your butt?"

The response was an eyeroll worthy of a Warner Brothers cartoon. "No. It's halftime."

"Oh, yeah. I wonder if..."

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's halftime show is brought to you by the McKinley High School Glee Club, joined by the Titans..."

The announcer's voice faded as the two boys, along with the rest of the crowd, cast their eyes towards the field. The music began pumping through the loudspeakers as a horde of zombified football players and cheerleaders took the field. Dave blinked; there seemed to be a lot more of them than there were on the field...

"They're back," Kurt gasped. "The entire team... They're back."

Dave didn't reply, watching as Santana (taking the place of a still somewhat discombobulated Tina) began to sing. He remembered her performance at Sectionals, which put into mind the conversation they had beforehand. Just the memory sent a shudder through him that had nothing to do with zombies. He didn't know much about her, but he did know that she was definitely not the kind of bitch to mess around with...

_It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark..._

The male voice was clear, smooth, and unfamiliar. It didn't match anything Dave remembered hearing during the New Directions' Sectionals performance. Then his eyes truly focused on the curly-haired zombie singing. "Holy shit..." He turned to Kurt, about to ask if he were hallucinating, only to see the same gobsmacked expression that Dave himself knew he probably had.

"It's..."

"That's the Anderson kid," Burt muttered in a half-growl.

As Blaine and Artie belted out the chorus in perfect harmony, Dave could hear Kurt gasp. "He... he really is good..."

"Kurt..."

"Dave, shhh!" Kurt leaned forward, as if trying to wring every last drop of sound from the air. Dave frowned.

Kurt, for his part, watched with eyes and listened with ears he still wasn't quite trusting. That radiant look on Anderson's face as he sang... He knew that look. He'd seen it on Dave the first time he'd seen the Warbler perform. Equating anything about Anderson to anything about Dave felt wrong, almost blasphemous, but... there was no denying it. In just a few minutes, everything Kurt knew (or thought he knew) about Blaine Anderson was being twisted, turned upside down into something that was at once familiar, yet practically unrecognizable as what it was before. The thought was more than a little disturbing.

Finn began the rap portion, and Blaine stepped back to join the rest of his fellow zombies in the final steps of the dance. Dave had to admit that the team actually looked like a _team_ , their movements in perfect (if zombie-stiff) sync. The crowd was into it too; the roar of their cheers erupted into applause and hollering as the number ended. Titans and Glee Clubbers alike stood on the field, their chests heaving as they drank in the accolades.

"Holy shit," Strando whispered.

"This..." Todd Jameson began.

"Is awesome," Blaine Anderson whispered to himself.

* * *

The minutes ticked down like seconds, as they always did. With the full force of the first string McKinley football players back, the game had tightened up considerably. Down three with less than half a minute for one last play, Blaine found his every nerve humming like high tension wires. This was what he lived for: the ultimate test under the ultimate pressure.

The Titans had just recovered a fumbled snap (Blaine couldn't help but notice and appreciate the irony, especially accompanied with the zombie taunts), and now the game was tantalizingly in reach, but only just. Even with their play in place, there were too many factors in question: defensive reaction, timing, a hundred thousand little things that could turn everything against them. Yet when Hudson broached the possibility of just going for a field goal to send them to overtime, every player saw the silent agreement in each other's eyes: no. It was either win or go home.

Peyton's SportsCenter worthy snap sounded like a gunshot in Blaine's ears as he started his sprint. He had coverage, of course, but most of their opponents were drawn in to Chang and Hudson, who was currently faking a run.

Blaine Anderson and Finn Hudson had always had a rather odd relationship. They were friends of a sort once - as much friends as a couple of elementary schoolkids can be, at any rate. Then Hudson's remark about his eyebrows in the fifth grade... That started a rift that Blaine was almost startled to realize continued to this very day, a rift that never really had any significance to their lives until Blaine landed on the football team.

As Blaine's talent caused Tanaka (and then Beiste) to shift their strategy towards passes, the bond between quarterback and wide receiver suddenly swelled in significance. Despite Hudson's precise throws and Blaine's equally exact catches, the two had surprisingly little coordination. Much of their success hinged on their sheer _individual_ talents and raw luck. Blaine disliked and frankly distrusted Finn; Hudson returned the enmity, only deepening after joining the Glee Club and the incidents with Kurt Hummel. So, despite the importance of the teamwork and "chemistry" that Shannon Beiste desperately wanted, there was a wall between Blaine Anderson and Finn Hudson that rivaled the one in China.

But as Blaine's eyes skimmed over Hudson's face - already in shadows thanks to the harsh lighting above them - something (for lack of a better word) _clicked_. Was it the hours of zombie camp? Was it the high of the successful performance? Was it some sort of weird understanding between them? Whatever it was, something in Blaine's head shifted. He knew exactly what Hudson was going to do, where he was going to throw and when, as clearly as if Hudson had shouted it in his ear.

With a quick spin and dodge, Blaine shook his cover. The rest were distracted by Chang and Hudson's run, leaving him wide open. Without so much as looking in Blaine's direction, Hudson did an aggressive pump fake, then threw the ball. It soared directly towards Blaine, dropping into his already waiting arms as if drawn there by some higher power. With the familiar warmth of the pigskin on his skin, Blaine ran, his legs burning with strain, his heart burning with adrenaline. He felt, rather than saw, the panicked defenders barreling towards him - at least the ones that weren't immediately slammed to the ground by Azimio or Evans. His eyes barely registered the scoreboard clock clicking down to zero, his ears deaf to the screams of the crowd (except was that Hummel's high pitched yelling? For him?). All his brain would accept from his senses was the empty field in front of him, the goalposts rushing towards him like a giant crazed bull.

As always, he only came back to himself at the familiar sound of the referee's whistle, and the sight of said ref's arms pointed directly into the air.

* * *

Within seconds of the touchdown, Kurt was on his feet. It was silly, his intellectual side told him, to be so worked up over a football game; he hadn't even lost his cool when _he himself_ won one. But this time... What was it? He couldn't even ponder the question, not with the blood rushing in his veins.

He eagerly grabbed Dave's hand and yanked him to his feet (a fact that would've surprised him as much as it surprised the much heavier Dave, if Kurt had been conscious of anything else at that moment). He pulled his friend down towards the field, where the jubilant McKinley fans were already flooding on. "Finn!" As a performer, Kurt definitely knew how to project, though even he strained to be heard over the crowd. "Finn!"

Finn's head was peeking over the milling, jumping throng; at the sound of his name, he turned. A smile lit up his face as he began waving. "Over here!"

"Let me handle this, Kurt," Dave said. Taking the lead, he gently began pushing his way through the crowd, acting as an icebreaker so that Kurt could follow in his wake. It vaguely reminded Kurt of that first day seeing Dalton, only on a larger scale. Eventually, they made their way to Finn, who gave Kurt a huge, tight hug and Dave a triumphant fist-bump at the same time. Dave was the first of them to speak. "Congratulations, man."

"Thanks! God, that was a close one."

"Finn!" Kurt gushed. "That was... that was amazing! The throw, the catch, the show...! All of it!"

"Yeah, you did great," Dave said with a nod and a smile.

"Thanks, dudes. Though I can't really take all the credit; Anderson really did his part too, in all of it." Despite the noise, there was a moment of silence between the three; the mood instantly seemed to sour. Finn looked stricken, as if instantly realizing his mistake. "Geez, Kurt, I'm sorry..."

"No, it's okay," Kurt said quietly. "Actually... Where is he? I wanted to congratulate him too."

"You do?" both Kurt and Dave asked in surprise. "Why?" Dave added.

"I..." _Don't know. Because I want to find out if what I saw of him out here was real, or just another one of his masks...?_ "It's okay. You guys are here to protect me. And if he'd wanted to do anything to me, he'd have done it long ago."

"Yeah, but you don't owe the guy a thing!" Finn argued. "Hell, _he's_ the one who owes _you_."

"More than you know," Kurt muttered under his breath.

"That should've been you out there, Kurt, not him," Dave snarled. "I can't believe you'd…"

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, the fact remains that it _was_ him performing and not me. I've accepted that, Dave, and I ask you to do the same. All I was expressing was my opinion. And honesty compels me to say it: he was fantastic. Look," he continued to Finn more loudly, "you aren't denying what he did out on the field, are you?"

"Well... No... But you don't have to actually go out of your way to meet him right now. I can just give him a message from you if that's what you really want."

Kurt shook his head. "No, that's okay. Maybe... maybe it can wait anyway. Dave, why don't we..." He turned, but instead of the burly teenager he was expecting to see next to him, saw his father instead. "Dad? Where'd Dave go? He was standing right there..."

Burt shrugged. "Don't know. But I'm sure he's around here somewhere." Then he turned to Finn and pulled his stepson into a tight hug as a beaming Carole came into view. "Congratulations, kid. You deserved that victory."

As heartwarming as the sight was, Kurt couldn't help but frown. Where the hell did Dave go...?

* * *

Blaine knew that there were people out on the field looking for him, both teammates and spectators, but he really couldn't find it in himself to care. The hallway was empty as he hurried towards the locker room, his helmet hanging from his hand.

Now that the adrenaline was fading from his veins, he could think, and found that it wasn't exactly what he wanted to be doing at the moment. It was just too much. There was just too much. The game, the show, the song, Santana... His shoulders were starting to buckle under the weight. He needed time to sort it out, time to find himself again...

"Anderson!" Blaine jumped at the voice, echoing through the hall. A familiar teenager wearing a red windbreaker over a flannel shirt was approaching with an aggressive stride. Despite the radically different outfit, Blaine's mind flared in recognition.

"Oh, hello again, Dalton Boy. Name's Dave, isn't it? I'm surprised you found me."

"Asked around," Dave growled in return. He glared for a silent moment.

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "I take it this isn't a congratulations for winning the game...?"

"I'm warning you: leave. Kurt. Alone." Each word was punctuated by a poke to Blaine's chest - they were inflicted with a single index finger, yet they still somehow almost sent him stumbling back. "He doesn't need you screwing up his life any more than you already have."

Blaine was torn between rage, amusement, and weariness. "In case you didn't notice, I haven't done _anything_ to him lately. What brought this on?"

"Doesn't matter," came the snappish reply. "You'd better stay away from him if you know what's good for you."

"Or else what? You'll kick my ass?"

"For starters. And I'd get away with it, too. You'd deserve it for everything you've done."

"Maybe." The quiet admission had a startling, yet somewhat pleasing, effect on the larger boy; he was the one who almost stumbled back this time, out of sheer astonishment. "But what do you care?"

"What do I care...? He's my friend, of course! A real friend, too, not just a teammate to hang around with and exploit."

Blaine's anger was starting to win over his other emotions; he felt his smirk returning. "Right. Just a friend."

"What the fuck are you implying? Two gay guys _can_ just be friends, you know."

"I _mean_ , how long did you know Kurt when we met?"

Dave frowned at the question, but for some reason answered anyway. "A few days. What's it to you?"

"So let me get this straight: you drove over two hours to confront me in the name of someone you'd known for just a few days."

Dave's frown deepened. "Yeah? So?"

"That doesn't sound exactly like a 'friend' to me."

"What does it sound like, then?" Dave shook his head violently. "You know what, don't answer. I don't care what you think."

"Did Kurt ask you to tell me to leave him alone?" Blaine pressed.

"Well, no, but..."

"Wow." Blaine threw up his hands in mock wonder. "You really are trying hard to fool yourself, aren't you?"

The look on Dave's face fell in an instant, a creeping hint of fear blossoming that Blaine found oddly thrilling. "What the fuck are you babbling about?"

"I'm just saying that I'm not a threat here. At least not the way you seem to think I..."

"Shut up!" Dave shouted, a little too loudly even for this situation. "Shut the fuck up! You don't know anything about me or..."

"Oh, Dave, Dave, Dave..." This time it was Blaine who shook his head, in exaggerated pity. "It's true, I don't know what issues you have that's making you so scared, and frankly, I don't care. Just don't go blaming me for your problems or Kurt's when we both know whose issues are _really_ at play here." He gave Dave a poisonously sweet smile, one that reminded the Warbler uncomfortably of another McKinley student he'd met. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to shower and celebrate my big win. Nice talkin' to ya." He turned and walked casually away, feeling better than he had for months. He didn't even need to see Dave's face, pale and terrified, before the Warbler practically ran in the other direction.

* * *

The celebration at Breadstix was loud and raucous, but considering the victory of the hometown heroes, no one there, employee or patron, really minded. The tables were too small to seat together everyone who arrived; to the disappointment of many of those present, the groups divided up organically between the Glee Club members at one table and the non-members at the other. Still, there were some high fives, laughs, and stories swapped between the tables, which Kurt chose to see as progress.

At the moment, though, he was feeling a little hemmed in, what with Finn sitting on one side of him and Dave on the other, with both casting glances at Anderson at the other table every so often. But the wide receiver seemed to be behaving himself, sticking mostly with his group, other than the occasional joke cast towards Sam or Mike. Kurt thought several times about getting up and approaching, but one look at Finn and Dave convinced him that it would probably cause more problems than it would solve at the moment.

However, one of Kurt's silent predictions was coming true: Dave seemed to be getting along with the Glee Club at least tolerably. He was generally very quiet (which surprised Kurt quite a bit), but at least made an effort to engage with the others, which they seemed to appreciate.

"Dave?" he asked quietly. The addressed boy nearly jumped out of his seat, his soda almost spilling from the cup he was holding. "You okay?"

"What?"

"You've been really quiet ever since we left the game. Are you feeling all right?"

Dave's eyes flickered, never landing on Kurt for more than a moment. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just... I'm just tired, that's all. It's been a long day."

"Longer for Finn, I'm sure." The smile slipped from Kurt's face. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure! Just drop it already, okay?"

"All right... Fine." Kurt shook his head, missing the remorseful look that flashed over Dave before vanishing completely. Kurt returned to his food, somehow not feeling _quite_ as hungry as he had just a minute before.

* * *

"Hey, Anderson! Wait up!" Blaine turned to see Finn jogging towards him in the parking lot. The party was over, and most of the group was dispersing for the night to sleep the sleep of the righteous victor. "Hey, congrats on MVP, dude."

"Thanks. But you could've told me that in the restaurant. I'm beat."

"Yeah, I know. I really wanted to ask if... well... you wanted to join the Glee Club full-time." There was a dead silence. "I didn't ask before 'cause I didn't think you'd want Strando and the others hear me ask."

Blaine cocked his head, one of his unreadable expressions settling onto his features. "You were right. That was... actually intelligent of you, Hudson. Thanks."

Finn smiled, seeming _much_ too pleased at the compliment. "You should, you know. You were really good. We could use another voice like yours in New Directions. Even Kurt thought you were great."

Blaine's spine stiffened. "He did?"

"Sure. He wanted to tell you himself, but… well, y'know." Finn rubbed the back of his head gingerly. "I said I'd pass that on to you, though."

Blaine's mind snapped back to his little… conversation with Dave in the hallway. _Ah. That explains everything._ "You sure the others would go along?" he asked Finn out loud. "With me joining your club, I mean? They tolerated me for this, but now that it's over..."

"They will. I'd make sure of that," Finn replied firmly. "All you'd have to do..."

"Ah, I knew there was a catch."

"No, no, no catch. Just... you'd just need to apologize to Kurt. I could take you to his school, and..." Finn frowned as he was interrupted by Blaine's almost hysterical laughter.

"G... Oh, God, I can't... I can't breathe!" Finally, the gales died down, and Blaine straightened from his almost doubled-over position. "Oh, man, thanks for that. I _really_ needed that."

"I don't see what was so funny," Finn snapped bitterly.

"Look, Hudson, even if I had time to join Glee - and I don't - and the desire - and I don't - I'm not going to commit social suicide no matter how great the halftime show was. You really think their cheering meant something? What do you think those same people are going to do the next time you perform at school?" Finn opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Blaine nodded grimly. "McKinley is fickle, man. You of all people should know that. Besides, there's something else I'll be spending my time on..."

"What?"

"Oh, you'll see. Real soon now." Blaine clapped Finn on the arm. "Thanks for asking, though."

It was only long after Blaine drove away, and Finn himself was on his way home, that he realized that he'd never before heard the word "thanks" coming from Anderson's lips before. Ever. Certainly not towards him. He pondered this the rest of the night, trying to shake the vague sense of unease it gave him.


	12. Silly Love Songs: I Come All Undone

"They're finally getting together? God, it's about time!"

The discussion stopped Kurt dead in his tracks, his foot still in the air, his hand still brushing the handle of the ajar music room door. He didn't quite recognize the voices inside, but knew that at this hour it had to be fellow Warblers. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have even bothered to pause, but something about this...

"Yeah, I... believe they lasted this... without..." The other voice was much quieter, resulting in gaps as background noise, or even the hum of the central air system, drowned it out. "Dav... been pining... weeks now!"

"Geez, tell me about it. But at least he's going big with this. Whose idea was the whole serenade surprise, anyway?"

"Dunno, but... Dav... said it... We're going... in two days."

"Well, at least it's something we've already rehearsed. Hey, do you think he'll..."

"Kurt?" The addressed teen spun around as smooth as a ballerina. Dave stood behind him with crossed arms and an amused look. "What are you doing?"

"Ummm..." The friendship between the two had thawed considerably since the championship game; Dave even came to Kurt's room one night not long after to apologize for "being such a dickwad," an apology quickly and warmly accepted. Still, Kurt couldn't help but feel a vague unease coming from his friend, an unease that translated into an equally vague tension in almost every aspect of their interactions. Like their conversations - still friendly, but with much less of the casual, easy feel that they used to. Like the way Dave was staring right now. What was he waiting for? Oh, right, an answer to his question. "Nothing."

"Oh, good. Because it looked like you were listening in on someone else's conversation like a creeper."

Kurt flushed. "Not at all." He pushed open the door; of course, the conversation stopped cold the instant he did so, if only so the Warblers talking could greet him and Dave as they walked in. Soon enough, they were deep in Regionals rehearsing, which was too bad, because Kurt really wanted to hear the rest of that discussion.

Not that he was assuming that it was about Dave, of course, not with another prominent "David" in the same group. And he had heard some discussion about the other David and his crush on a girl whose sister attended Crawford. Still, the very concept, the very _idea_ , that it could refer to his Dave ("his"? Did he really just think that?) was a fascinating one. Especially fascinating was his own reactions to the possibility: intense curiosity, nervousness... hope?

His mind replayed the short discussion he had with his father at the dinner table the night before Finn's championship game. So far, he had put off a talk of that nature with Dave, partly because of the run-up to Regionals (yes, that was a fine excuse as far as he was concerned), but partly because... As he'd said to his father, it was complicated. Mostly because, well, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd _say_ to Dave. How could he, when he was still mired in confusion over this whole friendship/admiration/maybe-kinda-sorta-love mix that felt like it shifted significantly each time he and Dave laid eyes on each other?

Still... maybe just saying it to Dave would help solidify things. It seemed that their friendship had been built and strengthened long enough to avoid awkwardness. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe...

"Next order of business!" Wes announced, slamming down his gavel. Kurt jumped a little in his seat; Wes _did_ love using that thing a little too much. Then he realized, much to his surprise, that the council had started, and the agenda under way, all without his noticing. "We have a request for an off-campus performance." The room erupted in murmurs; such a thing hadn't been done by the Warblers in almost a hundred years! And this was requested by one of their own, no less! "The council has discussed this in depth, and we have decided that it will be granted." Wes began to turn. "Senior Warbler Dave..." Kurt found himself holding his breath for some reason. "...id Thompson?"

Kurt's heart sank. He knew that the chances weren't good (he still figured he knew Dave well enough that he'd have had _some_ warning beforehand), but he was still disappointed. As David gave his thanks to the rest of the council and started describing what he had in mind, Kurt glanced over at Dave. To his surprise, the other boy was already giving him a rather odd, anticipatory look, one that dissolved into surprise, then quickly suppressed, once their eyes met. _Ah,_ Kurt thought. _Karofsky expression number 19: I have something to say, but I'll wait with barely contained impatience until the meeting is over._ The hope, wild and hot, flared up once more.

The rest of the Warblers' business crawled; Kurt kept glancing at the clock, and a couple of times he could swear the hands had moved backward. Soon enough, Wes rapped his gavel to adjourn the meeting, and as expected, Dave immediately turned to Kurt, putting an arresting hand on his forearm. "Hey, you're helping out David with the serenade, aren't you?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I kind of remember what you said about Valentine's Day and all…"

"Oh, don't be silly, Dave. Just because I despise it and practically everything it stands for and has become doesn't mean I'm completely heartless. I'm doing it to help a friend."

Dave smiled. "Good, because I've got a surprise for you for after it's over."

Kurt's eyes twinkled. "Well, it's not a surprise anymore, is it?"

"It… I… Oh, come on, Kurt, of course it is. You'll just have to find out. I think you'll really like it."

Kurt nodded, not able to keep the smile off his face, the hope out of his heart. "I know I will."

* * *

_I'm a fucking saint,_ Blaine Anderson thought. Why? He was trying, really trying, to at least look interested in what his "girlfriend" was talking about, especially considering it was about some sort of Glee Club drama that had taken place earlier in the day. Of course, it was easy for him; dozens of dates and almost as many girlfriends had allowed him to perfect the "smile, nod, and say 'uh huh' occasionally" routine. But with Santana, of course, one could never be sure. She had probably invented some of the techniques he was using. On the other hand, was she in any state to even notice fakery? Blaine was hoping not.

"... so I decided, they wanna screw with me? I'll screw with them, and fuck the..."

He wondered what would happen if he tried to interrupt at this point. Either she'd ignore him or slap him upside the head, most likely. He nodded and sipped at his coffee. "Uh huh."

"... went to the nurse's office, of course. Wes Fahey was..."

Blaine's mind wandered. _Let's see, gotta call the tailor... Oh, and order the laptop, of course. Do I need any software? I'll have to ask Santana once she gets off her high horse. Maybe I should…?_

"...kissed him." The blunt statement, though it barely reached his mind through his bored haze, snapped Blaine back to attention. "So once he kisses Quinn, and they both start getting sick, they'll..."

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ ," Blaine interrupted. "You infected Hudson and Quinn?"

Santana sighed. "Yes, I said that. I knew you weren't listening." She grinned a little as Blaine scooted his chair back. "Oh, don't worry, I'm pretty much immune to mono. Anyway, I can't wait to watch what happens. Especially Quinn. God knows she needs it, with her shoving her 'single and loving it' status in our faces..."

"That's not what I meant! I thought we were gonna tell them about... you know..." Blaine rubbed his forehead. "You said we needed them. Why piss them off now?"

"Oh, stop worrying. We'll wait until Finn and Quinn are better. They'll never know I did it on purpose anyway." She leaned forward and stroked Blaine's cheek; he was amazed at how such an intimate gesture (deliberately played up to attract the attention of the Lima Bean patrons around them) could feel so... empty to him - empty of desire, heat. It had implications that Blaine tried very hard not to think about. "Relax. We've got everything under control."

"Famous last words," Blaine muttered.

"What the hell's up with you lately? You've been acting like an emo kid who just found out he won the lottery."

Blaine ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. It's just… everything, I guess. Things are happening…"

Santana rolled her eyes. "It'd be pretty fucking boring if they didn't."

"You know what I mean. Look at me! A few months ago, my life was perfect. I had everything. Just one stupid k… event, and everything falls apart. And it happened so fast…"

"When you're on top, you have a longer way to fall. Believe me, I know." A foreign note of understanding (of pity?) seemed to worm its way into Santana's face and tone. "Besides, the way I see it, you still got everything. You're a big-ass football hero, you wowed the championship game with your singing, you've got a blazing hot girlfriend, you're richer than 99% of Ohio just by yourself… Don't play the 'poor little rich boy' crap with me. Come on down to Lima Heights Adjacent sometime if you want to see real problems."

"Uh, don't you live in Sterling Hollow, that new development?"

"I _used_ to live in Lima Heights Adjacent, before my dad's practice hit it big. Don't think I've forgotten my roots."

Blaine looked up at the fierce expression on Santana's face. "Don't worry, I won't." He sipped at his coffee, a startling realization coming over him. "But thanks. I think I actually feel a little bit better."

Santana smiled, an expression that skated the dangerous razor's edge of sincerity. "Of course you do. Leave it to Auntie Tana to put everything in perspective. Now. I'm gonna need you and your lovely, beautiful, gorgeous… credit card."

Blaine groaned. "Again? Just because it has a bigger limit than your entire family's net worth doesn't mean it's there at your beck and call to be abused."

"Oh, I know. It's just at my beck and call to be used wisely for official 'get Kurt back and Prom Queen' business."

"All right, all right…" Blaine sighed. "But if I see you glance at the Tiffany's at the mall one more time, I'm out."

"Have it your way. We'll just have to stop at the Victoria's Secret on the way to…" Blaine groaned again.

* * *

Kurt shuffled his feet nervously as Dave disappeared into The Gap. The thrice-damned Karofsky had been mum and coy about his big surprise for days, and it was starting to tick Kurt off. Trying to take his mind off the anticipation, he approached David, who looked like he was about to throw up. "Relax," Kurt said, "you'll be great."

David gave a weak smile. "Thanks. I just… God, what was I thinking? Why am I doing this? I couldn't just send her a card or some flowers…"

"But you're not. You're singing - something you love to do, something you do from the heart. Trust me: if I were her, I'd fall at your feet for something like this."

"Thanks, Kurt. I'm just so nervous…"

"Relax. Sing what you feel. You'll do fine." Kurt glanced at the Gap; he could see Dave near the front, talking with a young man with long blonde hair. The conversation seemed to come to a close; the blonde retreated into the bowels of the store while Dave rejoined the other Warblers outside.

"Bad news, guys. The assistant manager won't let us do it inside. He says his boss won't like it. Don't worry, though," he hastened to add, seeing the panicked look on David's face. "He's gonna bring her out here."

David turned even greener. "Places!" he shouted in a hoarse voice. "Places!" Everyone ran into position without an ounce of hesitation. Dave somehow ended up standing right next to Kurt; the former gave the latter a small smile.

"You ready?"

Kurt nodded, trying again not to think of surprises. "Of course."

In moments, the blonde returned to the store front, leading a young woman by the arm. Kurt, even with his homosexual sensibilities, could see that she was attractive: smooth dark skin highlighted her intense eyes, her tightly woven black hair tied up into a knot at the back of her head. She was dressed, in Kurt's expert opinion, _far_ too fashionably to be wasted on a place like The Gap: a simple and flattering black ensemble with a wool sweater and silk scarf, which trailed behind her as the two exited the store. Her eyes widened at the sight that confronted her, her gaze flickering towards David, who stood front and center in front of them all.

"David? What are you… what's this…?"

David swallowed audibly. "Callie…" He paused, his throat rasping. "Look, I don't know how to put it into words, so…" He turned towards the other Warblers and gave a small nod. Immediately, their voices all raised in harmony as David began to sing:

_I never needed love… like I need you..._  
 _And I never lived for nobody, but I live for you..._  
 _Oooh oooh babe… Lost in love is how I feel… when I'm with you…_

The blonde man smiled as Callie gasped, her hands covering her mouth. Passers-by slowed their walk, and shoppers inside The Gap actually came outside, staring and listening as David's dulcet voice began to gain strength and confidence.

_Baby-ee-yay-ee-yay-yay… Oh, I get chills when I'm with you…  
Whoa-oh, whoa-oh…_

The crowd was growing. Kurt stole a glance at Dave as they sang the harmonious backup; Dave was watching the whole scene with one of the most glowing smiles he'd ever seen. Kurt was glad that Dave could be so happy for his friend, but there was something else to it… A sort of anticipation of something similar…?

_I never cared for nobody… Like I care for you...  
And I never wanted to share the things I want to share with you..._

Dave's smile was slipping; he was starting to get nervous. He didn't say so, of course, and the change in expression was minuscule, but Kurt knew. Dave was his friend; he knew.

_Baby-ee-yay-yay-yay-yay…_  
 _My world stands still when I'm with you…_  
 _Whoa-oh, whoa-oh…_

The song was starting to near its end, and David's eyes were starting to get nervous again. Kurt knew why; David had been fretting about the ending ever since he'd decided on this song over "How Do I Get You Alone." _Don't worry._ Kurt had no use for the idea of telepathic powers, but he almost wished they were real, if only so he could reassure his fellow Warbler. _You can do it. You'll be great._

And indeed, David's face seemed to light up with confidence as he reached the last lines.

_The world stands still when I'm with you…  
When I'm with yooooooooouuuuuu…_

He hit the falsetto notes perfectly, flawlessly, as he kneeled in front of Callie, whose hands were still frozen in front of her mouth, her cheeks streaked with tears. Even before the last notes faded away, the crowd exploded with applause, catcalls, and hollers, with the blonde man joining in just as enthusiastically. David looked up at her in anticipation.

"David… That was… was…" She laughed wetly. "Something." She sniffled, wiping her face dry with a trembling hand. "You could've just sent me a text, you know."

There were rumbles of laughter in the crowd. "I know," David replied quietly. "But… Well, I figure if you're going to ask the most beautiful girl you've ever met to be his Valentine… Might as well go big."

Kurt sniffled; he could see a couple of women in the crowd openly weeping. Another was glaring at the man next to her, obviously silently asking a question he didn't really want to answer.

Callie laughed. "If this… turns into anything, David… Your proposal had better be way better than this."

"Uh oh… I think I'm in trouble then." More laughter. "Does that mean you'll go out with me?"

"Of course I will, you idiot!" The two embraced, and the applause began in earnest, from crowd and Warblers alike.

As they dispersed to give David and Callie a little "alone" time, Kurt suddenly realized that Dave was no longer beside him. He looked around wildly. He finally saw Dave approaching from the parking lot, leading a tall, lean boy about their age. The stranger was dressed to the nines in fashionable labels that Kurt recognized immediately, short brown hair peeking out from under a wool cap. _Who…?_

"Hey, Kurt! There's someone I want you to meet." Dave was beaming with pride as he gave the stranger a gentle shove forward. "This is Gavroche. His cousin was a friend of mine back at my old middle school."

"Well, hell-o!" The other boy's voice was high-pitched and silky, much like Kurt's own.

"Ah… Hello." The two shook hands. Years ago, before he came out, Kurt remembered overhearing his father discussing handshakes with one of his employees. Burt Hummel had said that he judged people he'd just met by the firmness of their handshake; a limp or wet shake was the sign of someone who couldn't be trusted to have a spine. Of course, he would never have said that in front of his son knowingly, and Kurt knew that it was a stereotyped generalization based on somewhat homophobic (at the very least, sissy-phobic) cultural norms. Still, as he and Gavroche shook hands, he couldn't help but remember that remark; Kurt felt shame go through him. He tried to push it down. "So, uh… Gavroche?"

"That's right! Named after… well, I don't think I need to tell you, do I?" His eyes drank in Kurt's entire length, which he found a somewhat uncomfortable feeling. "'Cause Dave's told me so much about you."

"Has he?"

"Gav's between _boyfriends_ right now," Dave said, clapping his hands on Gavroche's shoulders. "I'm still in touch with his cousin, and he lives not far from here, so I thought you two should meet. You guys have so much in common. Gav here performs a lot in musical theater himself."

"Oh. Do you?" Kurt said politely, but with little more emotion.

"Oh, yes! The stage is just such a _thrilling_ experience, don't you think?" Kurt caught Dave nudging Gavroche in the back; the slimmer boy shot a "bitch, please!" look back at him before turning to Kurt with a smile. "Why don't we get some coffee at the Starbucks over there? Dave's told me all about your Glee Club. Please dish; don't leave a _single_ detail out!"

In that moment, realization hit Kurt like a baseball bat to his face. _Oh, God… This is Dave's surprise… He's setting me up with this guy!_ He glanced at Dave; he could see nothing but pride and hopeful anticipation. _Is that… is that how he thinks of me? Is this what he wants? Is…_ Kurt could feel his stomach doing somersaults. Then his spirit hardened. _Fine. If this is what Dave wants, why not? Why not see what happens, try to find some happiness for myself for once?_

He gave Gavroche a big smile. "I would love to."

Behind him, Dave's face lit up with happiness. Kurt tried not to be upset by that as Gavroche took his arm and the two walked away together.

* * *

The minute Santana stepped up to the front of the choir room, the Glee Club knew that something was up. Especially with that small, knowing smile of hers.

"Santana?" Mr. Schuester asked, puzzled. "Do you have something to say?"

"Not me," she replied. The doors opened, and as if on cue (and it probably was), in came Blaine Anderson, followed by Principal Figgins, who was beaming like Jesus Himself had just told him he'd won the lottery via a giant sundae-gram. The hackles of the assembled gleeks rose even more; Figgins was well-known as being an… enthusiastic supporter of the wealthy and influential Anderson family from the day he'd managed to enroll their only son into his school. His happiness meant Anderson's, and Anderson's happiness meant… Well, who knew what it meant? That was the worst part.

Mr. Schue's puzzlement deepened. "Ah… Principal Figgins… Blaine… To what do we owe the honor?"

Blaine stepped forward, his hands wringing. "I… have something I need to say to the Glee Club."

"Uh… Of course. Go right ahead."

He looked up at the gathered group; some looked hostile, some looked puzzled, some kept careful neutrality. Only Santana looked anywhere near pleased. "I wanted to apologize to you all."

There was a dead silence. "You what?" Mercedes asked flatly.

"Apologize. I've… been talking to Santana a lot lately. She really opened my eyes to how horribly I've been treating people I considered beneath me, to all the damage I've caused people, outside and in. I guess with my popularity, I never really let myself notice other people's feelings. I never realized how far I'd gone."

"Santana told you all this?" Tina asked doubtfully.

"And you're _sorry_?" Sam chimed in, skepticism written across his voice and features.

"I am," Blaine answered. "I never meant to go so far. I guess I just stopped seeing the forest for the trees. I lost perspective. I forgot that other people matter." The members of New Directions stared; he seemed completely, utterly sincere, sorrow and shame and regret written across his face. Still, the football team knew all too well his ease at faking sincerity. Principal Figgins apparently did not; he looked as pleased as punch while Mr. Schuester listened with his befuddled expression intact. "I know I haven't done much to some of you, but I have been inexcusably cruel to people you care about… and I can't tell you how sorry I am."

 _Wow,_ Santana thought, _when he writes a speech, he writes a speech._ She stepped forward, standing next to Blaine. "Well, I for one believe him," she said aloud. "Mr. Schue says the Glee Club is about second chances? I think he deserves one as much as anyone."

"You got him to do this," Tina repeated in the same flat, doubtful tone.

"Is that really so unbelievable?"

"Um, _yes_." The others nodded or muttered agreement. "Why would you care?"

Santana smiled at the perfect cue, taking Blaine's hand. "Wouldn't you want to help your boyfriend become a better person?"

That heavy, stifling silence fell upon the gathered group again. "Excuse me," Quinn sputtered, "did you say _boyfriend_?" Mercedes' jaw dropped as Sam turned green and Lauren made a decidedly non-sarcastic gagging sound. Brittany merely frowned a little.

"That's right: Blaine and I are dating."

"W-when did this happen?" Finn stammered.

Santana tossed her head, her hair flowing back. "I don't think that's any of your business. What's important here is that we've done a lot of talking, and we want to do something about the atmosphere here that's made good guys like Blaine think they have to push others around to be popular."

The stunned faces on the other teenagers were, Blaine had to admit to himself, priceless. "A-are you actually listening to yourself?" Artie asked in disbelief.

"And we have a plan," Santana continued, ignoring him entirely.

"Um," Mr. Schuester interrupted, "not that we don't appreciate the apology, but why are you telling us this?"

Blaine stepped in here. "Because we need you. All of you."

The silence deepened.

* * *

"If Saint Valentine were alive today, I'd stone him all over again," Kurt declared sourly. He sat on his bed, leaning back against the wall, staring off into space.

"C'mon, Kurt, have a heart," Dave chuckled from his seat at Kurt's desk. "Besides, this year you have someone to share it with…"

"Who, Gavroche? No offense to him or you, but we've only met for coffee twice. That's not exactly a Valentine's Day level of intimacy." Kurt shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm single on a holiday built entirely around couples. Again."

Dave sighed, as if coming to a momentous decision. "Fine, if misery loves company, then let me join you. We can cry on each other's shoulders, eat ice cream right from the carton, and watch Lifetime Movies of the Week so we can laugh and prove to ourselves that the single life is superior after all."

Kurt beamed. "Why, Dave, that's an _excellent_ idea. Mint chocolate chip or rocky road?"

"What, you're serious? Okay, fine, but at least give Gavroche another chance. Last I heard, you guys sure sounded like you were getting along, the way you two were talking up a storm about musicals and fashion designers."

Kurt's mood soured. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

"What?"

"Please. I have enough on my mind without thinking about dates and boyfriends on Valentine's Day."

"But… it's the _perfect_ time to…"

"Please, Dave," Kurt repeated, a pleading look entering his face. "Not now, okay?"

"O… okay…" Dave turned his gaze and drummed on his leg with his fingers. Kurt called this one "Karofsky expression 22: shame mixed with something that I haven't quite figured out yet."

Kurt would later realize just how differently things could've gone had he just opened his mouth and said what he wanted to say right then and there. But with the Gavroche issue still hanging over his head, he actively resisted the impulse, for which he would be kicking himself for years to come. Instead, he jumped off the bed, if only to break the tension. "But first… We have a performance to give."

Dave frowned. "We do?"

And so, after the "Lonely Hearts" performance at Breadstix and an invitation extended to fellow single Warblers, about half of the group ended up in the common lounge at Dalton, passing around the rocky road ice cream and making sarcastic remarks about the acting and caliber of stars being cast in Lifetime movies. Only once in the entire evening did Kurt even glance in Dave's direction; he certainly _seemed_ happy.

For now, for Kurt, that almost felt like enough.


	13. Comeback: In the Meanwhile

Dave poked his head into Kurt's room. Its tenant stood immediately, frantically waving him in. "Finally! Quick, I'm dying here!"

"Geez, Kurt, calm down. Do you even know what this URL Santana sent you is?"

"No, but I have a feeling it's big! I don't think she would've sent it otherwise!"

"And you have no idea why she said I should see it too?" Dave pulled up a chair and sat next to Kurt at the desk. The laptop's screen played a soft glow over both their faces.

"No. All I know is that it's from Jacob ben Israel's blog, but I can't seem to find the link on his site. It must be something he hasn't made public yet. That's why I know it's important."

"Jacob who?"

"He's McKinley's resident Matt Drudge wannabe. If he's putting it up, it must bring in eyeballs."

Dave's eyes twinkled in amusement. "And you still haven't looked at the link? I would've watched it as soon as I got it."

Kurt's nose rose into the air. "Well, I keep my promises and consider the feelings of my friends." He turned to his laptop screen with an almost unholy look of glee on his face. "Let's see… There!" After a few moments of loading, moments that passed with Kurt's fingers tapping impatiently on the desk, a video started to play. Jacob ben Israel's face appeared on the screen, practically bursting with excitement.

"JBI reporting, bringing you what is likely to be the top story of the year at McKinley! Joining me now is the newest school power couple, Blaine Anderson and Santana Lopez!"

Dave raised an eyebrow. "So Anderson and Santana really are…?"

"I almost didn't believe it when Mercedes told me, but it must be…" Kurt shook his head. "I actually can't tell which of them's playing the game here."

"Maybe we'll find out." They turned back to the video. Blaine and Santana, nearly cheek-to-cheek, were now in view, their close-up taking up almost the entirety of the screen.

"Thanks for having us, Jacob," Santana said with a cheesy smile.

"You said you had a major announcement for my viewers?"

"That's right," Blaine replied with his own cheesy smile. "For too long, students at McKinley have been living in fear, fear of bullies."

"Bullies like you two."

"Score, Jacob," Kurt muttered under his breath.

To their credit, neither of the interviewees' smiles slipped in the slightest. "We admit we have a… checkered history in that department," Blaine said so smoothly that it must have been scripted. "That is exactly why we are here today, to offer a kind of penance for our past misdeeds."

"And what," Jacob asked, "is this 'penance'?"

"I thought you'd never ask," purred Santana. "Jacob, viewers, students of McKinley, we present a force for good that will make everyone safe from the scourge of bullying. We present…" At this point, both Blaine and Santana donned dark sunglasses. Kurt's breath hitched; he recognized them as major label models he'd only seen in magazines, websites, and on the faces of celebrities, always with triple digit price tags attached.

"… the Bully Whips!" Blaine and Santana shouted simultaneously.

The pair separated, vanishing off each side of the screen, revealing the front doors of McKinley. They burst open, and a sight like something out of a Tarantino movie appeared.

Finn, Puck, Mike, Sam, and Artie emerged from the right hand doors, while Rachel, Tina, Quinn, Brittany, Lauren, and Mercedes strode out of the left. The guys were wearing designer black suits that Kurt could tell were each specifically tailored to its wearer. Their black ties whipped freely in the breeze as light glinted off sunglasses identical to those worn by Blaine and Santana. The women were similarly impeccably dressed in white blouses with black coats, skirts, and shoes, not to mention the sunglasses, still without a single off-the-rack item in sight. The group stopped just outside the doors, some with their hands behind their backs, others with their arms crossed in front of them. Blaine and Santana stepped back into the frame; Kurt and Dave could now see that they too were dressed identically to their fellows. Each, it was now apparent, wore wireless radio earpieces.

Dave drew in a breath. "Holy shit…"

"The Bully Whips," Santana announced with a grin that could only be described as "shit-eating," "are an elite anti-bullying task force."

"Um…" Jacob interrupted, "except for Anderson, it looks like the Glee Club."

"That's right," Santana replied, unfazed. "A glee club, I must remind you, that's made up of first string football players, former and current cheerleaders trained by Sue Sylvester herself, a championship wrestler, a girl who's honed her strength and agility in dance lessons since she was barely old enough to walk… and Tina." The named girl took a glance at Santana, her expression unreadable behind her sunglasses. "But I'm sure she's plenty spunky," Santana hastened to add. Tina somehow seemed mollified by this. "This is a group who is undeniably badass. Yet they are shunned by McKinley at large, so they know what it's like to be the victims of bullying. That is why they will be its perfect guardians."

"The Bully Whips are fully supported and sanctioned by the school administration," Blaine continued. "As a group, we will be able to patrol the halls of McKinley every day, finding and intervening in any bullying that occurs. Students may report incidents or serial offenders, or request personal escorts, over the phone or online, through our website or Twitter. Two members are always on call, with carte blanche to deal with bullies by… whatever means required."

"Even him?" Jacob asked as the camera focused on Artie. Only with this angle was it apparent that he had a Macbook Air in his lap.

"Artie here is our Mission Control," Santana explained off-screen as Artie gave the camera a grimly determined expression. "He will be coordinating patrols, passing on incident reports, and, along with some, ah, independent contractors, investigating reports of cyberbullying against McKinley students. As you can see, Jacob, the Bully Whips are fully equipped and willing to deal with the issue of bullying at McKinley."

"But what about zero tolerance policies? Why are the Bully Whips necessary?"

"Ah, but we all know that many students think reporting such incidents to their teachers or staff is futile or dangerous." Santana and Blaine now reappeared, with the latter doing the talking. "Not to mention that many incidents simply fly below the radar. This widespread, peer-based solution allows victims to speak more freely, without fear of judgment or retaliation, and without the danger of… overreaction by the administration."

"So," Jacob said with an edge of eagerness in his voice, "when will the beatings commence?"

"The Bully Whips are not about violence," Blaine said calmly (causing Kurt to snort). "That would make us no better than those we fight. We believe in stopping bullying before it starts. By demonstrating to both bullies and their victims that protection is available, we remove the opportunities that make violence and harassment possible in the first place."

"And if it doesn't work, then the beatings?"

Santana smiled. "Well, we hope that would-be bullies will see that we can defend ourselves and our clients, and not be so stupid. But we will defend ourselves and the helpless… if necessary."

Jacob appeared on the screen, his face lit up with excitement. "There you have it, folks, a JBI exclusive unveiling of the newest force to hit McKinley High School. Will they be able to make a dent in the reign of bullying terror? Only time will tell. This is JBI signing off!" The camera focused once more on the suited, shaded group, then ended.

There was a long minute of silence spent just staring at the "replay" icon on the screen. Finally, slowly, Kurt and Dave turned towards each other.

"That…" Dave began.

"That was…" Kurt began.

"… the fucking hottest thing I have ever seen in my life!"

"Ohmigod, I know! Did you see Sam? The boy was rocking that suit!"

"And that large chick…"

"Lauren?"

"Right. Now, I'm totally gay, but…"

"I know!" Kurt enthused. "She was amazingly sexy! They all were!"

Dave shook his head in wonder. "The Bully Whips… Where the fuck did they get that name?"

Kurt chuckled. "Who knows. Twenty dollars says Santana came up with it."

"You think it'll really work? The Bully Whips, I mean?"

"I… don't know. But I'm glad they're trying. If they can help people feel safer there, it'll be worth it."

"If it did work, would you… go back?" Dave swallowed audibly.

Kurt blinked. "I don't know that either. I want to, but…"

"Yeah," Dave nodded firmly. "Who knows what Anderson really has in mind? I don't know if even Santana can keep him steady."

Kurt laughed. "Then you don't know Santana very well. She's practically Sue Sylvester, minus a few years, hair color, and ancestry. Not quite at her level of shrewdness, either, but give her time."

"I'll take your word for it."

"But think about it, Dave. They could create a place safe for kids like you and me, where they could be out without fear. In small-town Ohio. I think that's something worth striving for. Worth hoping for."

"I guess you're right…" A thoughtful look came over his face. "Hey, speaking of that, did I ever tell you how I came out?"

"No," Kurt replied with a smile, "but I have a feeling it had something to do with Grandpa Murray."

"You got that right. I was about to turn thirteen, so he took me on a weekend fishing trip. On the drive back, he was talking about women, how he met Grandma Pat, and how to treat girls with respect. I guess I knew by that time that I was… different, so the whole thing made me kinda uncomfortable. I was twitching so much in my seat that I'm surprised I didn't send the car into a ditch." He paused; Kurt nodded encouragingly. With a smile, Dave continued. "Finally… I don't know why I spoke up the way I did. By all rights, I should've been so nervous that I should've kept quiet the entire way home. God, I wonder what would've happened then. I probably wouldn't have had the nerve to come out on my own. My life would've turned out so different…

"But I did say something. I looked at Grandpa Murray, and I actually asked, 'but what if I like guys?' For this long, long moment, he was quiet; I wouldn't be surprised if we went fifteen miles the entire time. Finally, he pulls over at this rest stop, and I'm sure I'm in trouble. I know, just know, he's gonna leave me there. But as soon as we're parked, he turns to me, and he says, 'Then you treat the boys you date with respect, same as I've been telling you.'"

"What did you say?" Kurt asked in a whisper.

"Nothing. I couldn't say anything. If you'd hit me on the knee with a hammer, I couldn't have said anything. Then Grandpa Murray says, 'I don't care who you go out with or who you hook up with, Davey. You're my grandkid, and I love you. I know your parents feel the same way, so when we get home, we're gonna tell 'em that you like guys, 'cause I don't want you to feel afraid around them a second longer, all right? And if they act even the tiniest bit hinky, I'm gonna put the fear of God into them, I guarantee you.'"

"Wow," Kurt said, his smile widening. His chin was resting on an upraised fist, leaning towards Dave, as if trying to physically take in the other boy's words.

"I know. And we did, too. He was absolutely right; Mom and Dad didn't care at all. Jack teased me for a while, of course – gave me a shirtless Ricky Martin poster for my birthday – but otherwise, he was real cool too. He denies it, but I still think he had something to do with Steve Barnes getting that black eye…"

"You have an amazing family. Grandpa Murray especially."

"Yeah… Remind me to tell you some of his stories about living on a commune in the late Sixties. Man, I never looked at him the same way again."

Kurt barked a sharp peal of laughter. "I can imagine. But it does explain a lot."

"I guess it does. He's been counterculture his whole life. I learned a helluva lot from him. Especially after I came out; he was the one who taught me how to depend on myself and…"

"Stand strong. I know."

Dave grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. I guess I do say that a little too much, don't I?"

"Oh, I don't mind." Kurt paused thoughtfully. "It's kind of odd, then, how much you seem to like Dalton. Since it's all about conformity and all."

"I suppose. But I dunno how much I actually like it; I tolerate it, 'cause it's a great education and all. Having friends like Wes and David helps. Otherwise… I think I'd go kind of nuts sometimes."

Kurt nodded forcefully. "I know what you mean. There's a lot to like about Dalton, but… if it weren't for Anderson, I don't know that I'd have ever come here. I just… It's just not the place for me. It sort of feels I'm being scrutinized and judged every second by someone. Except you, I mean. I just can't help wondering what they expect from me: my best, or for me to screw up." He looked up; there was no offense on Dave's face – just understanding. "I can't stand strong here, you know?"

"It's not for everyone, I know. Folks like Trent really thrive with all the structure. Me, I…" Dave paused. "Hey, you okay?"

"What?" The faraway look left Kurt's eyes. "Oh, yes. I was just thinking… Maybe Anderson feels the same way about McKinley."

"Huh?"

"Think about it. McKinley demands conformity just as much as Dalton – just in a different way. Anderson's trying so hard to fit in… That's why he's hiding. That's why he's so miserable. I… can understand that. God, can I understand that…"

Dave examined his friend's face; he saw no anger or fear at the mention of Anderson's name – just wonder, comprehension, and concern. His heart pounded. "Uh… Speaking of understanding…" He winced at the rather lame transition. "Gav's been singing your praises to everyone who'll listen." Dave smiled. "He thinks you're adorable."

Kurt reddened. "You had to bring him up, didn't you?"

"What? Isn't he just your type? Don't you like him?"

"I don't know enough about him to know if I 'like' or 'don't like' him yet. You certainly aren't helping with your pushing."

Dave raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, I'll ease up. I just think… you two would be great together."

"If you think so…" The conversation died at that moment. It was only a few more minutes before Dave rose, nodded good night, and left, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts.

A satisfied Santana was a scary Santana. And right now, Santana was nothing if not satisfied as Jacob's video finished rolling. "This… is excellent."

"It should be; I did all the work," Blaine grumbled.

"Oh, poor baby," Santana said with an exaggerated pout. She scooted over from her seat on Blaine's bed and started massaging her boyfriend's shoulders. No one had checked up on the two all evening, nor did anyone blink an eye when they retreated to Blaine's bedroom; no one was around to do so anyway besides a couple of servants for whom indiscretion only went about as far as casual gossip with friends over coffee. "Well, don't worry; we'll all soon have more to do than we can handle. Lucky for us Figgins has his nose up your father's ass; with him on our side, dealing with our classes, or anything else, shouldn't be a problem."

"That's if this whole cockamamie scheme of yours works."

"All this time, and you're still questioning me? It's going to work."

"I don't understand why you decided to involve the Glee Club anyway. Some of them could run against you for prom queen, especially Quinn..."

"I explained that already; if we're going to enact the kind of change that'll get Kurt back here and us popular, we need the bodies. They'll convince Kurt we're sincere. Besides, that's why we're establishing ourselves as founders and spokespeople. When the voters think 'Bully Whips,' they'll think of us, not the grunts." She regarded Blaine for a long moment. "Cheer up, would you? You're seriously dragging down our moment of triumph here."

"Yeah, well, excuse me for feeling like I'm getting the short end of the stick."

"Hey, have you heard the buzz about you in the halls lately? In case you haven't noticed, I've been talking you up like nobody's business. You're a bigger stud than ever. You could probably get out of this whole thing even more popular with everyone than ever before."

Blaine thought about that for a moment; just a few months ago, the prospect would've been thrilling. But right now… "Maybe it wasn't worth it."

Santana's eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"Maybe I've been an idiot all this time, trying to be everything to everyone. I mean, that halftime show… It was amazing, San. Nothing I've ever done has made me feel that way. Nothing." Blaine shook his head. "And even after all that… When Finn asked me to join your stupid club permanently… I just couldn't do it." He laughed bitterly. "So cut me some slack if I can't bring myself to care about a little popularity. I've discovered I'm a fucking coward." He fell silent. "Then again…" he muttered, "maybe the popularity's all I have left."

He looked up at Santana; she was just staring at him. He'd been expecting some kind of smart-ass, cutting remark long before this; this staring was making him nervous. "Get a spine, Anderson," she finally snapped. Okay, Blaine thought, this is more like it. "So you don't know who you are or what you want. Big whoop. There's a support group for that: it's called the fucking human race."

"Like you care," Blaine grumbled.

"All I know is that this whole thing falls apart without you. So you're deep in the closet and you don't think your mommy and daddy love you. Big fucking deal."

Something hot ignited in Blaine's chest. "I do not think that Mom and Dad don't…"

"Okay, okay, fine." Santana stared at Blaine for a long moment, a strange look in her eyes, one that didn't seem particularly contemptuous or hostile. That made it completely foreign to his eyes, and set his heart pounding in an unaccountable way. The silence stretched on. Blaine thought he could hear a clock ticking, even though his were digital. The wind rattled his window.

"Santana…?"

The cheerleader closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "I'm doing this for Brittany," she finally whispered.

"Who…? Brittany Pierce? Why? What's she got to do with…?"

"If I get Kurt back," she continued in the same whisper, the pace of her words increasing, as if she feared they'd stop if they didn't, "if I win prom queen… Maybe I can fool her into thinking I can command her to be with me. Or maybe she'll think that I'm good, that I've changed. Maybe she'll leave Artie and come back to me…"

Blaine's eyes widened. His mind went back over the words, trying to find some way he could've misheard, trying to find some alternate interpretation. "Y-you and…?" He swallowed. "You two just make out for the guys," he rasped. "Right?" Then he saw the tears streaking down her cheeks. "Oh, God… Then…"

Santana nodded mutely. "Yeah. That's how I found you. I… knew what to look for." She laughed a bitter laugh. "I guess as a closeted lesbian and a judgmental bitch, I have pretty good gaydar."

"But… why are you telling me? I could just tell everyone and…"

"Then I'd out you in return. We'd both be ruined. Now we can keep our secrets together."

Blaine tentatively reached out and touched his girlfriend's shoulder. It stiffened a little, but did not flinch. "That doesn't answer my question. Why are you telling me? I'm not exactly the mentor type."

She shook her head. "I… It felt like I should. Maybe I was tired of having no one talk to. Maybe us working together these past few weeks made me feel like I could say something. Maybe…" She threw up her hands. "I have no fucking idea. Maybe I'm starting to see that you have the potential to be an actual human being."

Blaine swallowed. She's actually trusting me with this. Me. He groped for words like a man in the dark. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Santana laughed, a gurgling sound that came from her throat. Blaine offered her a tissue, which she took and used to dab her face. "So, there you have it. The big bad bitch cheerleader, crying herself to sleep over a blonde who thinks that knockwurst is awful sex. Must make you feel good seeing me knocked down to your pathetic level, huh?"

"Honestly?" Blaine replied quietly. "No." He put an arm around her; her head sank to his shoulder. He rubbed her arm, letting the tears wring themselves out.


	14. Blame It On the Alcohol 1: Raise Your Glass

The words "unsupervised," "teenage," and "party" are so innocuous when apart that it's almost hard to fathom how terrifying they become when put together. "Well…" Kurt started, "it's Rachel. Maybe that will keep things under control, even with Puck there."

Finn stared at Kurt through the Skype window. Kurt stared back. Then they both started to laugh uproariously. "Seriously, though, dude…" Finn began as he wiped the tears of mirth from his face. "It probably will be pretty lame. But I'm going to be designated driver just in case."

Kurt nodded. "That's good of you, Finn." He turned at a knock on his room door. "Come in!"

A living wall dressed in a Dalton uniform entered. "Hey, Kurt, I… Oh, sorry. Didn't know you were busy."

"No, no, come on in."

"Hey, Dave!" Finn waved from the computer screen. "How's it going?"

"Ehh, not bad. Sorry I haven't been on Live lately; I'm being slammed with school work."

"No prob. I was just telling Kurt about this party Rachel's throwing."

Dave's eyebrow crooked in amusement. "Sounds exciting."

Kurt chuckled. "Yes, that's the first word that comes to mind in regards to Rachel Berry. 'Exciting'…" His voice faded.

"What're you thinking about, Kurt?" Finn asked.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just… Do you think anyone would mind if I attended?"

"Mind? Of course not! I think the only reason Rachel didn't invite you is…"

Kurt nodded. "Yes, last year, I know…" His mind briefly flickered to vague memories of vomit and babbling about Bambi's mom, memories he quickly suppressed with a shudder. "I'm glad you think so, though; I was afraid I was going to have to blackmail you."

"Ooh, blackmail?" Dave piped up with a grin. "With what?"

"Nothing!" Finn burst out with a blush. His face quickly shifted into a frown. "But wait… Santana's probably gonna drag her, uh, _boyfriend_ with her…"

Dave coughed. "Uh, why _do_ you want to go to this thing, Kurt?"

"Why not? Everyone from the Glee Club's going to be together during a weekend; that's pretty rare. I've missed them."

"But like Finn said… Anderson's probably going to be there, and…"

Kurt sighed. "I can't let him rule _every_ part of my life, or he wins. Besides, he'll be alone there, surrounded by my friends. Trust me, every single one of them is going to be keeping an eye on him, no matter how drunk they get."

Finn nodded. "That's true. Besides, ever since the Bully Whips started… I dunno, he seems different. He actually seems to be taking it seriously. If I didn't see it myself, I don't think I would've believed it."

"How's that going?" Kurt asked eagerly before Dave could interrupt.

"I'll tell you about it at the party."

"Sounds good!"

Dave cleared his throat. "Uh… I kinda hate asking this, but… Do you mind if I tag along with Kurt?" Both Hudmel brothers turned towards him. "I mean, friends of Kurt's are friends of mine, and… I really haven't been able to get to know the Glee Club all that well… besides Finn, I mean. I'd… like the chance."

Finn beamed. "Hey, why not? We'd love to have you!"

"Like he said…" Kurt said in an odd, slightly tight voice that neither of the listeners noticed. "Why not?"

"Cool," Dave said with a relieved smile. "It'll be fun."

"Yeah…" Kurt said skeptically. "Fun."

* * *

There was an air of foreboding surrounding Finn, Kurt, and Dave when they arrived at the Berry residence. It wasn't anything with an obvious source, but they all felt it, though none dared to say so out loud. The three were the last to arrive; there were loud greetings and cheerful waves when they entered, with Mercedes and Tina coming up to give Kurt tight hugs. Dave's eyes darted about the room, searching; he found what he was looking for on a living room couch. Blaine Anderson leaned against one of the arms while Santana lounged against him, her head on his shoulder and her left hand playing with his hair. The two exchanged a glance, but little else, which was fortunate; if Anderson had so much as opened his mouth, Dave wasn't sure he could've resisted the urge to punch it.

Dave grabbed himself a wine cooler and began mingling. He made somewhat-larger-than-small talk with Mike Chang, discussed _The Last Airbender_ with Sam Evans (as much as he could, with what little he could understand of Sam's strangled rage-twisted epithets against M. Night Sham-whatever and his curses against all his spawn unto the hundredth generation), listened absently to Brittany Pierce talking about… something to do with her cat and the stone heads on Easter Island, and had an interesting chat with Artie Abrams about the finer points of Mac OSX, with Abrams preaching with the enthusiasm of the newly converted. "And it's UNIX based!" he'd enthused. "Can you believe it? I can't believe I never gave it a chance before; my Dell's in a landfill somewhere right now, I can tell you…"

Eventually, Dave found himself on a sofa, playing with his empty bottle. He was pretty good at holding his liquor; it would take a _lot_ of wine coolers to get him even more than slightly buzzed, so just one certainly wasn't going to do much. His eye fell on Anderson on the other couch. True to Finn's word, he'd seen the others watching Anderson themselves, though neither he nor Santana seemed to notice, or perhaps care. They giggled, held hands, whispered, all the things one would expect a straight guy and his girlfriend to do. Only the very perfection of it would've been suspicious, and even then only if you already knew, like Dave did. _I wonder what it's like to be able to pretend like that,_ he thought. _To have everyone think… assume… that you're straight, make it easy for you to hide…_ The very idea was so seductive in its own way that Dave felt himself getting sucked in. It was only the thought of Grandpa Murray's scowl that brought him back to reality. _Shit, stop that right now. I'm a lot happier being out. Anderson would be too… Maybe Kurt's right. Maybe Anderson's hurting himself just by his hiding. It sure can't be easy…_ Wait… was that actual _pity_ coming over him? For _Blaine Anderson_? Just the feeling felt like a betrayal; Dave pushed it out of his mind with a scowl, returning his attention to the party.

Looking back on it later, it was fascinating; he could actually _see_ the party degenerating. At first, the rooms were filled with bored teenagers sipping wine coolers and glancing at the door occasionally. Then the beer and other harder drinks began appearing in hands seemingly out of nowhere, and the conversations became louder and more lively. There had been multiple toasts to those "baddest of badasses, the Bully Whips." Soon the air was filled with hoarse, hysterical laughter, tangled rubbery bodies, and the smell of alcohol breath. It was like that sequential picture of fish crawling out of the water, developing into mammals, then walking upright, then becoming cavemen, then becoming human… only in reverse.

Mercedes Jones staggered over, throwing her arms around him in a hug. "I love you," she muttered into his shirt. "You're such a good friend to Kurt."

"Uh… Thanks? I… love you too?" He gently extricated himself from her grip; she happily toddled off to express her joy to someone else. Dave scanned the room; Santana was sitting on the floor, weeping and ranting to Quinn Fabray, who was half-listening with glassy eyes. Blaine Anderson was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Kurt.

Panic seized him. He charged through the house, peeking into room after room. The third or fourth door he threw open appeared to be some kind of study. Puck (his actual name escaped Dave's memory at the moment) was sitting behind the desk, which was scattered with open bottles of Crown Royal, Grey Goose, and some other unrecognizable brands. His feet were propped up as he tossed back his head and drank from a short glass. The mohawked teenager's eyebrows rose as Dave appeared. "Hey. C'mon in. Have a drink." His voice was strong and steady, even as his eyes betrayed his inebriated state.

"Can't. Have you seen Kurt?"

"Pssh. Relax. Even if we all get too plastered to pay attention to Anderson, which we won't, Finn still has his back." Puck gestured loosely with his free hand. "Come on. Siddown with me." Seeing the other boy's point, Dave reluctantly entered, shutting the door behind him. He was pretty sure why he did so: his throat was burning, begging for something cool to wash it down. He grabbed the Crown Royal bottle, poured himself a glass, and threw himself into a leather recliner, tossing back the booze with a single gulp. Puck watched all this with an edge of amusement. "Not in the party mood, huh?"

Dave shrugged. "It's okay."

"So you saw the Bully Whips thing, right? We're completely badass, am I right?"

"Yeah, definitely," Dave nodded absently. He got up and poured himself another drink.

"It's hella cool, lemme tell you. We get to walk around in suits and…" Puck trailed off as he watched Dave take another swig of alcohol; he slid his feet to the floor. He leaned forward, both his elbows on the desk, both his hands cradling his glass. A serious look came over him; with the desk and the surroundings, he resembled a school administrator about to get to the bottom of troubling misbehavior. "So what's the deal with you and Kurt?"

Dave's head snapped up. "We don't have a 'deal.'"

"Uh huh. Right. Look, I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, I know that. I'm also getting as drunk as fuck. But me and Kurt are friends. And I keep good track of my friends. There's _something_ going on. I don't know what, but it's something."

"It's nothing. Really." Dave refilled his glass once more; Puck just watched in anticipatory silence. "Hell, it's not even him that's the problem." He sat back in the recliner, staring into his amber-colored glass. "It's me," Dave said quietly. "It's all me."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Why are you interested? You hardly know me."

Puck looked offended. "But like I said, I know Kurt. And I know you two are tight. So if you're unhappy, he's gonna be unhappy. And if he's unhappy, _I'll_ be unhappy, if you get my meaning." He shrugged. "Besides, it's a party. What's the good of being drunk if you can't talk about a bunch of shit you'd never talk about sober?"

Dave had to admit that the words had a lot of logic to them. Or maybe the booze was finally getting to him. Either way, it was a chance to put a tap on the pressure that was steadily building inside him. _This is crazy! You're thinking of telling him shit you haven't even told Wes and David!_ But maybe that was the point; there was a distance here, created by drunkenness and "friend of a friend," that somehow made it more comfortable. And if even a little of what he'd heard about Puck from Kurt and Finn was true, then he certainly wasn't in any moral position to judge anything Dave told him, and they both knew it. "Okay. But you can't tell anyone about anything I'm gonna tell you. _Especially_ not Kurt."

"Sure." Puck looked even more serious now, as if he could sense the importance of what he was about to hear. "I promise."

Dave took a long drink. "Okay. It's like this…"

* * *

"Hey, Mister Bully Whips founder!" Quinn's voice rang through the halls. "C'mon, we're gonna play Spin the Bottle!"

Kurt stiffened. He'd lost track of both Dave and Finn at some point, and now he was trapped. Well, not exactly _trapped_ ; the comfy corner chair he was sitting in was only being hemmed in by bodies. But considering one of them was an inebriated Lauren Zizes, and that she had a look on her face that told Kurt that she would either beat him to a pulp or vomit all over him if disturbed, he considered it as solid a barrier as barbed wire or the Great Wall of China.

"Cooooooomiiiiing!" Anderson stumbled into the room, his shirt buttoned unevenly, accompanied by a clingy Santana. The way the others greeted him as he almost literally fell into the circle, one would never have known that he was the Glee Club's mortal enemy just months ago. Kurt tried not to feel any bitterness at this; he knew it was just the alcohol talking.

"Kurt! KurtKurtKurtKurt!" Rachel sang. "Come! Join the game!"

Kurt took one look at the sloppily smiling Anderson (who didn't even seem aware of Kurt's presence, never mind coherent) and gulped. "Oh, no no… I'm much too comfortable here. You guys enjoy."

To his relief, Rachel merely shrugged. "Suit yourself." She tossed an empty bottle into the middle of the group; it landed on the floor with an audible "thunk." "Who's first?" she asked eagerly.

Kurt sighed and sipped at his Diet Coke (tinged not at all with the rum that Puck tried to push at one point). He'd told Finn that he wasn't drinking as a back-up just in case more than one driver was needed, but that wasn't really true. Just the thought of becoming drunk, and probably ending up clinging to Dave sobbing about Mufasa and wildebeests, sent cold chills through him. Of course, now that Dave had as much as told him where he stood, that shouldn't have been such a pressing need. But Kurt supposed that old habits were hard to break. Besides, didn't he deserve _one_ friend who wasn't swept up in the insanity that was his life?

The overhead lights glinting off the spinning glass was almost hypnotic, and before Kurt knew it, the bottle game had completed a full revolution of the circle and then some. Thus far, Lady Luck had been kind to the assembled drunkards; the only same-sex landing had been Lauren for Quinn. Fortunately for the health of those involved, even if anyone had a smart remark to make at that point, they were wise enough not to make it, even with their inebriation. Quinn was game, and Lauren approached the challenge the way she approached every challenge: with aggression and vigor (not to mention a preemptive middle finger to stave off sneers that never came). Their kiss was firm but tame, finished with a round of applause and a wolf-whistle from Anderson. Neither girl seemed particularly turned on or disgusted (though Kurt heard Lauren grumble about finding her oddly absent boyfriend and doing painful, unspeakable things with his nether regions).

Rachel was next; the bottle wobbled like, well, a drunk teenager as it spun. It slowed quickly, its neck coming to a halt pointing directly at Blaine Anderson. His eyes widened as the others catcalled and hollered. "Better watch out, Santana!" Quinn snickered.

"Noooooo," Santana whined, clinging to Blaine's arm. "You're _my_ boyfriend. You can't infect his lips, Rachel Berry! You can't!"

"Now, now, dear," Anderson slurred, patting her arm. "It's just a game. A real real fun game. Just one kiss. Juuuuuust one." Crawling on his hands and knees ( _Probably the only way he can move right now,_ Kurt thought), he made his way across the circle to Rachel. She closed her eyes before they kissed. The sound of their lips and tongues moving was loud and wet; Kurt's stomach churned. The kiss went on… and on… and on, their mouths working at each other like octopus suckers. The others were starting to stare.

"Heeeeyyyyy!" Santana screeched, leaping forward and yanking Anderson away. "Get your own boyfriend, you whore! Keep your nasty man-lips away from my baby!"

"San-Santana, c'mon…" Anderson nearly tipped backwards from the force of Santana's pull.

"Spoilsport," Rachel pouted as she licked her lips.

Kurt gulped down the rest of his Diet Coke, wishing for the first time that evening that it actually was alcohol – anything to wash that mental image out of his brain. He wasn't exactly sure which of the three involved he pitied more. As Lauren leaned forward to take her spin, he took the opportunity to slip out of his chair and out of the room. Finn might have fun watching drunken antics, but for Kurt, it was just uncomfortable, almost like watching people he cared about slowly go insane (though now that he thought of it, that's almost exactly what was happening). _I have to find Dave…_

The thought brought him up short. His first impulses always seemed to revolve around Dave somehow. _I think I'm starting to understand why 'Cedes was so upset before…_ But that was fine, right? They were friends, no matter what disagreements and… disappointments might arise between them. Besides, he wondered what Dave would think of his stolid teetotaler-ism in the midst of so much revelry…

"Kuuuuuurt!" The sing-songy voice was chillingly familiar. He turned in disbelief to see a grinning Dave Karofsky, waving at him with the hand that wasn't currently holding a three-quarters empty bottle of whiskey. "Your friends… Your friends are _so_ awesome."

"I know, right?" Kurt spun around to see Blaine and Santana entering the room behind him. "This is the _best party ever!_ "

"And you know what, Kurt?" Dave whispered in his ear, his breath hot and smelly. "You know what, you know what, you know what?"

Kurt sighed. "What?"

"You're…"

"Missing out on all the fun!" Puck cried loudly, grabbing Dave's shoulder and swinging him into a sofa. The Warbler reacted with a loud, raucous laugh. "He's gotta at _least_ join us for karaoke!"

Kurt groaned. As Rachel and Blaine started a maudlin duet of "All By Myself" (wait, how did that song even make _sense_ as a duet?), he began weighing the advantages of self-immolation as a method of escape.

* * *

It was quite fortunate that Finn was one of the sober ones, or Kurt couldn't imagine how he would've gotten Dave out of the house and into the car. As it was, it took both of them (mostly Finn) almost five minutes to steer the stumbling Daltonite out of the house and into the waiting vehicle.

Kurt, perhaps foolishly, sat in the back seat with Dave, just to make sure that his friend didn't choke on his own vomit (though the very idea of someone as big as Dave vomiting anywhere in his time zone almost made him lose his own dinner). His friend was half-asleep, his head lolling even as his eyes blinked blearily in the passing streetlights. "Where we going?" he slurred.

"Home," Kurt replied. "You're going to get some sleep and hope your hangover doesn't kill you."

Dave gave a lopsided grin. "Yer such a good friend, Kurt."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know."

There was one advantage to Dave's drunkenness: he seemed to have forgotten all about Blaine Anderson's existence. Even when the two were in the same room together, even when Anderson was hogging the spotlight (i.e. the karaoke machine) with Rachel, Dave didn't seem to even acknowledge the other's presence. He seemed content to splay across the sofa, his huge arms encircling Tina or Mike or whoever decided to sit next to him, blissfully taking in the music and offering solid applause no matter who the singer or how good the performance. It was not the certain bloodbath that Kurt was expecting, and for that he was grateful.

One odd thing, though: Puck was a constant presence by Dave's side the entire evening. Several times Dave had turned to Kurt and started to say something; each time Puck interrupted with a new drink or an attention-getting song request for the current karaoke team. Kurt could tell that Puck thought he was being subtle, which was amusing enough in of itself. Still, what was he doing? What was he thinking?

"Mmmmm…" Dave's head lolled to the side, first rapping lightly against the car window, then sinking rapidly in the other direction. Dave's head landed against Kurt's shoulder before he could even move, the presence warm and heavy even beyond the physical. With a satisfied purr, Dave wrapped his arms around Kurt's waist. The smaller boy froze. "Warm…"

"You okay back there?" Finn asked.

"Ah… I… suppose?" Kurt squeaked.

"Teddy… bear… Please don't move…" Dave muttered, his embrace tightening. For lack of anything better to do, Kurt gently patted Dave on the head. The drive home never felt so long.


	15. Blame It On the Alcohol 2: The Hangover

Once at the Hummel-Hudson home, the trip upstairs was less effort than Kurt was expecting; Finn, of course, supported most of Dave's weight, while Kurt helped them navigate the two around various deadly obstacles such as end tables and ottomans. The house was dark, his parents asleep, thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster, so they soon dropped the three-quarters asleep Dave into Kurt's bed.

"Mind if I crash on your floor tonight?" Kurt whispered, grabbing a blanket and a pillow.

"Nah, no problem. I'll see you later."

Finn left, leaving the two Dalton students alone in the room. Sighing, Kurt fluffed up a second pillow and lifted Dave's head, sliding it underneath. The act seemed to rouse him a little. "'Nother… whiskey…?"

"I think that's quite enough for tonight." He sighed. "I had no idea you were the type to get so drunk anyway."

"M'not," came the muttered reply. "Just wanted to…" He trailed off.

"To?" Kurt prompted.

"Forget…" The voice was soft, sad.

Kurt shuddered, though he wasn't quite sure why. "Forget what?"

"Dunno," came the almost petulant reply. "M'self? Forget everything going around in my head?"

"Like what?" Kurt asked quietly.

A long, pregnant pause ensued, so long that Kurt thought Dave had fallen asleep. Then, just as Kurt was about to leave: "Like what a fat, angry, stupid fake I am?"

Kurt's heart sank into his stomach. He'd always known there were thoughts like that lurking somewhere in Dave's head, but to hear it so nakedly like that… "What if I told you that none of that's true, and that the only reason you _might_ be stupid is for thinking it is?"

"Then… I'd have something to say 'bout you, I guess…"

"And that is…?" Another pregnant pause. This time, Dave's reply was a low, throaty snore. Kurt shook his head and sighed. Leaning closer, he could see that Dave's mouth was hanging open, and a rather disgusting line of drool ran down his chin. The snore increased in pitch; Kurt was suddenly extremely glad he'd decided to sleep in Finn's room. He sighed again.

Kurt watched and listened for another few seconds more; Dave was definitely asleep. Trying to keep his heart from pounding, he leaned over and kissed Dave on the forehead. "Good night." He tiptoed out of the room (although he had a feeling he could've left stomping in clogs while playing the trombone and it wouldn't have mattered in the slightest) and gently shut the door.

On the bed, Dave's mouth twitched into an unconscious smile before letting out another massive snort.

* * *

"Dude, you sure that's enough padding?" Finn asked as he climbed into bed.

"I don't know, but it's all I could scare up." Kurt arranged the bedclothes on the floor as neatly as he could.

"You sure you don't want to take the bed? I could always..."

"I told you, it's _fine_. It's your room."

"Yeah, exactly. And you don't have to let Dave drive you out of yours..."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Right, that's exactly what we need: for Dad to catch Dave sleeping within two feet of me. Not that he _should_ be reacting badly, but I have to deal with the reality..."

"At least Dave's not super aggressive when he's drunk," Finn remarked. "So you don't have to worry about him trying to molest you or something just 'cause he's plastered..." He trailed off. "Uh, Kurt? What's the matter?"

"Matter?" came in the innocent reply. "Whatever made you think something was the matter?"

"Because you went all white as soon as I said something about Dave being plastered." He glared. "Did he...?"

"No! Nonono!" He practically began waving his hands in denial. "It's just..." Kurt sighed. "I guess you'll hear about this sooner or later. There was a game of Spin the Bottle, and... Rachel and Anderson kissed."

Finn's eye twitched slightly. "Yeah, well... Good for him. Rachel and I aren't together anymore so... I don't care." His voice was mildly hoarse and strangled.

"Of course. Fine. I believe you." Kurt smiled a small, ironic smile as he lay down on his makeshift sleeping space. The memory of Rachel and Anderson locking lips, which he'd so carefully tried to purge from his mental hard drive, came back with full force. _No. Later. It's been too long a day to spend the entire night mentally retching._ He forced his eyes to close and let exhaustion chase the kiss from his mind.

* * *

Burt Hummel had been dreaming that Paul Bunyan was cutting down the Chrysler Building with a weed whacker when his eyes flickered open that Sunday morning. Shaking his head at the strangeness of the still-lingering mental images, he rubbed his eyes and started his morning routine.

The oddity only hit him as he was rinsing his mouth after brushing his teeth. The sound of that weed whacker was still in his ears, even though he'd been awake for several minutes. He thought at first that someone was doing yard work, but the noise was way too loud and sharp, almost as if it were coming from _inside_ the house…

Frowning, he drifted down the hall, listening at each door. Finn's room… nothing. Bathroom… Nothing. Kurt's room…

There. It sounded like someone was gargling a jackhammer, definitely not a noise that would ever issue from Kurt. Burt gently opened the door. Splayed across Kurt's bed, fully clothed, was Dave Karofsky, letting out a snore that resembled the sound a herd of warthogs would make if each member were being individually strangled. Kurt himself was nowhere to be seen. Burt's frown deepened as he shut the door.

He went into the kitchen, where he found his son preparing a tray containing scrambled eggs, toast, and a banana. Kurt was pouring a glass of Gatorade when he saw Burt. "Oh, uh… Good morning, Dad."

"'Morning." He poured himself a cup of coffee, letting Kurt's expectant silence lengthen, and taking a slight perverse pleasure in it. "When'd you and Finn get in last night?"

Kurt casually put the bottle of Gatorade back into the refrigerator for Finn's later use. "Late."

"Mm-hmm." Burt sipped at his cup, his eyes steady and staring. Kurt coughed as he returned to his tray. "So, who's that for?"

"Um…"

"Just a wild guess, here, but could it be for Dave? Who's currently snoring loud enough to wake the dead in _your_ bed?"

Kurt rubbed his forehead, sighing. "Dad…"

"And that breakfast of yours… I was a teenager once, you know. Eggs with Gatorade? I remember all the hangover remedies." Burt shook his head. "I thought you said this was going to be a clean party."

"Okay, fine, it got a little… out of hand. But I didn't expect it, and neither Finn nor I drank a drop. We made sure everyone got home safe, especially Dave."

"Looks like I'll have to have a talk with the Berrys. You first." Burt tossed back the last of his coffee, then motioned for Kurt to have a seat at the small kitchen table. The younger man sat, with Burt following. " Kurt, I know that you meant well. But having another boy in your bedroom, behind my back, is just inappropriate…"

"For your information," Kurt interrupted in a snooty tone he didn't intend to take, one he usually only used on athletic Neanderthals, "I slept on the floor in Finn's room, a decision my back is still paying for. "

"That's fine, but that doesn't change the fact that right now, he's in your bed, and…"

"If either of us were straight, you wouldn't be so concerned."

Burt pinched the bridge of his nose. "If this were Finn, and I found Rachel under the same circumstances, I'd be saying the same thing to him. Just promise me that you won't be having any more guys on sleepovers, at the very _least_ without my knowledge and approval."

"I can't believe you'd think that I'd do _that_ with…"

"It's not a matter of sex, Kurt. It's a matter of appropriateness and boundaries…"

"How would you know?" Kurt snapped in a sudden, irresistible surge of bitterness. "What do you know about homosexuals and sex?"

Burt sucked in a breath. "I may not know… mechanics, but I know teenagers; like I said, I was one once. Gay, straight, I don't think the problems and issues with sex are any different, do you?" There was no answer. "If it's about the… mechanics, I can educate myself if you want. But…"

"Oh Goooodddd…" A baritone groan came ringing from elsewhere in the house. "Someone kill me now… Please…"

"Uh oh." Kurt leaped to his feet, grabbing the tray. "Can we talk later, Dad, before poor Dave cuts off his own head to make the pain stop?"

"We will _definitely_ continue this later." The stern, parental tone never failed to send a shiver through Kurt's spine. He nodded and left the kitchen, distracting himself from thoughts of the conversation he'd just left by wondering if he should wear some kind of protective poncho for what he was about to do…

* * *

Fortunately, by the time the afternoon rolled around, Kurt remained dry and vomit-free. He'd played mother hen while Dave groaned and dry-heaved and cursed the heavens and Jack Daniels with even more colorful swear words than the Warbler usually used. Kurt was resting on the living room couch when Dave staggered in, rumpled and red-eyed, a little pale but otherwise much stronger-looking than he'd appeared just hours earlier. It spoke of a kind of resilience that Kurt admired.

"Hey," Dave rasped through a bone-dry throat.

"Hey." The entire couch seemed to ripple as Dave threw himself onto it, on the opposite end of Kurt's seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks to you. Still a little off, though."

"Well, we don't have to start back until late, if you want. I can drive, and you can get some rest."

"Maybe. Just let me… sit here for a bit." There was a silence; Dave closed his eyes, though his heavy breathing spoke of a wakeful brain. "So, uh…" he began through still-closed eyes, "I hope I wasn't too much of a… hassle."

"Nothing Finn and I couldn't handle. I was a little surprised, though. You didn't strike me as the drinking type."

"Yeah, well… I guess I did get a little carried away. I usually don't get the chance to drink that much." Kurt noted that not a single word about forgetting came in the reply this time. "This is part of the reason why. My head…"

"Need some aspirin?"

"Nah. Just need to rest." He didn't speak again for a long time, and Kurt thought he'd actually fallen asleep this time. At least, until: "Kurt…?"

"Yes, Dave?"

"What did I, uh, say last night?"

"You don't remember?"

"Well, bits and pieces, but not a lot. And a lot of it is kind of going away thanks to the throbbing."

"What do you remember?"

That, Dave decided, was a good question. What he did remember, with disturbing crystal clarity, was the tail end of his conversation with Puck in the Berrys' study, even though by then he was definitely nine or ten sheets to the wind.

_Puck shook his head. "Man…"_

_Dave nodded. "Yeah."_

" _That's all kinds of fucked up right there."_

" _Yeah." He wasn't sure how Puck meant the statement; there were so many ways that Dave and his life were fucked up that it could've been any one of them. Or all of them. "Remember, not one fucking word to anyone, especially not Kurt."_

" _Yeah, yeah, I remember. Puckermans keep their word, so don't go losing your shit." He took a small sip from his glass, probably the least amount of alcohol he'd consumed all night. "Still, do you want my advice?"_

" _Not particularly."_

_Puck snorted. "Okay, fine, suit yourself. You'll be begging for it soon, I bet."_

" _Don't think so. I'm not one of your MILFs." Dave's mouth quirked in a wry grin._

 _Puck laughed. "What, my rep's gone all the way to Westerville? Shit, man, I knew I was good, but I didn't think I was_ that _good!"_

" _Nah, it's Kurt. He's told me all kinds of things about you." Dave was only half-conscious of the heaviness, the constant heaviness that seemed to weigh on his lungs and his stomach, lightening every time he drained his glass. "I gotta tell you, you people are kind of…"_

" _Batshit crazy? Yeah. But that's why we're so charming." Puck flashed a suave smile that nevertheless made Dave laugh. "Seriously, though, you really gotta tell…"_

" _I," Dave interrupted coldly, "do not need to tell anyone. And if you even hint…" His free hand unconsciously curled into a fist._

_Puck, to the other's surprise, didn't react with anger or offense; he merely shook his head sadly. "Okay, if that's what you want."_

" _It is."_

" _Whatever you say." And that, to Dave's further surprise, was the end of it..._

He had vague memories of Puck shadowing him later, interrupting him whenever he was about to say something... about what? That Dave couldn't recall. Neither could he fathom why. Nothing in their conversation could've possibly engendered _that_ much sympathy. He considered asking Puck directly, but there was that voice in his head, the one that kept saying "why the fuck are you even _considering_ doing something that stupid?" - his practical side. Nah. Better to let it lie. Couldn't have been important anyway.

"Something about… karaoke?" Dave finally answered Kurt, his forehead wrinkled as if in thought. "I think you sang…?"

"Me? Oh, God, no. Actually, Anderson hogged one of the mikes for most of the evening…"

Dave straightened, his eyes flying open. "Anderson! Did he…?"

"Actually, he didn't say a word to me the entire night. It was kind of odd. I guess in all the, uh, excitement, I didn't even think of approaching him."

"And you shouldn't have. Geez, Kurt, I'm sorry for not being there for you…"

"It's _all right_ , Dave. Finn was there, and as he said, everyone was looking out for me. It's fine. You're fine."

Dave slouched again, his eyes half-closing once more. "Okay… okay." He swallowed. "So, um, you never told me what I said and did last night…"

Some decisions are easy. For Kurt, the choice between "humiliate one of your best friends" or… not was one such decision. "Er, nothing much. I mean, for a drunk, you're pretty quiet."

"O-okay." Dave exhaled a sharp sigh of relief. "Y'know, maybe you should've asked Gav to the party instead…"

"Dave…" Kurt started sharply.

"I'm not pushing! It's just that he definitely wouldn't have made such a big fool of himself last night and embarrassed you in front of all of your friends."

Kurt smiled tightly. "Oh, I don't think you need to worry about what the Glee Club thinks of you. I'd be surprised if they can remember half of what they saw and did at that party. I'm just sorry I won't be around on Monday. It'll be… interesting."

Dave chuckled. "Yeah, I see your point. But thanks to you, I think I'll be able to get through my classes tomorrow without embarrassing myself." He sighed, his smile growing a little wider. "Really, Kurt, thanks. For everything."

Kurt returned the smile, but it felt heavy and unreal on his face. "Hey, what are friends for?"

* * *

"Has Berry stopped harassing you yet?" Santana asked casually as she filed her nails. She lay on her stomach across Blaine's bed as her boyfriend paced the room, their headaches and hangovers thankfully behind them for the time being. "Shame that the drinking didn't erase her memories of your singing. Wonder what Kurt would think if she knew that she wants you in the Glee Club?" She looked up and frowned. "Hey!" Blaine stopped. "Will you calm down already? You're making me fucking dizzy."

"She asked me out," he said quietly.

Santana slammed the file down onto the bed. "She _what_?"

Blaine gulped. "Asked me out," he repeated, his voice softer.

"She _does_ know you're dating _me,_ right?"

"Well, she _said_ that it wasn't actually a 'date.' She wanted to 'nurture my obvious talent' and 'assess our compatibility as duet partners.' But you know Berry…"

"Unfortunately." Santana snorted in disgust. "And you were thinking of saying 'yes.'"

"No! Why would I do that? She's arrogant, annoying, pretentious…"

"And a girl. That you kissed. For a long fucking time. Hell, you nearly sucked her face off."

"What, jealous, Santana?" Blaine sneered.

Santana laughed. "Yeah, right. The only time I will be jealous of Rachel Berry is when… Well, I could make up some hilarious scenario right now that insults her, but I really don't feel like bothering. She's not worth the time." She took up her nail file again. "But you're still thinking of saying 'yes,'" Santana said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.

Blaine stared for a long moment. Then he sunk into his desk chair and sighed. "I don't know how the fuck you do it."

"Okay, one, you're my boyfriend. Two, we've been all intimate in mind and soul, if not body, for months. Three, I'm a fellow closeted gay. So I know how your mind works by now. You felt something when you kissed Berry – besides nausea, I mean. So you want to date her in this desperate hope that you're actually straight, or at least bi, so you can pretend you're straight." Santana shifted position, sitting upright on the edge of the bed. "What I _don't_ get is why you're agonizing over meeting with Miss Lollipop Guild 2010 when you could've just asked me instead."

"You? But you're…"

"Still your girlfriend, even if the relationship is faker than April Rhodes' boobs. Besides, I'm _way_ hotter than Rachel, and have _extensive_ experience with guys, so if you don't feel anything after making out with me, you'll _know_ you're gay."

Blaine puffed out a breath. "I don't know… It was a silly thought to begin with. I don't know if…"

"If you really want to do anything that would confirm your rainbow gayness?"

"God, you really are some kind of witch, aren't you?"

"So do you want to do it or not?" There was no answer. Santana shrugged and returned to her nails. _I give him… hmm… five minutes,_ she thought. Three and a half passed before Blaine spoke again.

"Let's do it."

Santana smiled, patting the bed next to her. "Then c'mere, you." Blaine slowly and reluctantly sat. "Just relax. It's pretty obvious I wear the pants in this relationship, so you just let me steer." She cupped her hands around Blaine's chin; she could feel the heat in his skin, her fingers brushing against the rapidly beating pulse in his neck. She leaned forward, barely brushing her lips against his. "Feeling good? Or just impatient?" Blaine didn't answer. Taking his silence as continued assent, she held his hands in hers as she consumed his lips in a deep kiss. Her tongue snaked into his mouth as Santana poured in as much passion and intensity as she could fake. _I'd like to see Rachel beat this on her best day,_ she thought triumphantly. After a long minute, the two separated. She looked into Blaine's blank, slack-jawed face. "Well?"

Blaine paled, a desperately anguished look twisting his handsome features. "Oh, God…"

Santana merely nodded firmly. "That's what I thought. Now can we get back to our plans already?"

"Maybe… maybe it's just her. Rachel," Blaine continued in a babble. "Maybe I just need to find her and…"

"Ugh. Come on, Blaine. You are a hypocrite, an asshole, and a complete closet case, but you are _not_ stupid. Stop wasting your time when you know perfectly well what's going to happen. Now come on; let's finish up those Bully Whips schedules before it gets too late."

Blaine answered with a blink. "Is that the first time you've called me by my first name in private?"

Santana shrugged. "Who the fuck knows or cares? Get to work."

"Yes, ma'am." Despite himself, he smiled a little as he returned to his laptop.

* * *

"Holy shit…" Dave was pale as he watched the blue-grey gloop spray all over Rachel Berry's face. "That is _disgusting_."

Kurt nodded. "Remember when I said that I regretted not being around on Monday? That is why."

Dave leaned closer to the laptop screen as the horror played out via YouTube. "I don't want to watch it again... but I feel kind of like I _have_ to..."

"You can't look away, can you?"

"No… I can't believe your friends posted this. Won't it hurt the Bully Whips' reputation?"

"I doubt it. From what they've been telling me, they've actually built up quite a bit of goodwill. And they didn't. Post the video, I mean. This channel belongs to someone else at McKinley. I don't know who it is, but they post all of New Directions' performances. Apparently it's kind of popular." Kurt inclined his head towards the screen. "Mostly for videos like that."

" _All_ of them, huh?" With a wicked grin, Dave began scrolling through the channel's listing.

"What are you looking for?" Kurt asked with a frown.

"That Lady Gaga thing you were dumb enough to mention to me. I just have to see you in that outfit…"

Kurt smirked. "Go ahead. If you're expecting me to be embarrassed, you don't know me as well as I thought."

"Nah. Just curious. Besides, nothing can beat your friends' performance. I think it got fifty extra views just in the past few minutes."

"They're crazy, yes. That's why I love them so."

Dave's mouth set grimly at the wistfulness in Kurt's tone. But why? He had a right to miss his old school, his friends. _So why does it bother me? It shouldn't. It doesn't. I want what will make Kurt happy. That's fucking it._ He forced a smile back to his face. "'They're' crazy, Mr. 'Single Ladies' kicker?"

Kurt laughed, slapping Dave upside the head. "Shut up, you." And for a moment, for Dave, their friendship almost felt… normal.


	16. Sexy: The Cracks Appear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there has been, as you've noticed, a bit of a holding pattern in many aspects of this tale. It's not only dramatically appropriate, but it fits in with canon events.
> 
> That is ending. Things are going to happen. Status quo? Forget about it. From here on in, nothing for Kurt or Dave is ever gonna be the same, starting now.

When it was all over, Dave looked like he was about to faint. "My God…" he whispered. "And I thought Anderson was bad… You actually went to the same school as… _that_?"

"Yes," Kurt said flatly. He changed into the HOV lane as the car rocketed its way towards Westerville.

"How can you be so calm?" Dave demanded. "I… she…!"

"Deep breaths, Dave, deep breaths. I know that initial exposure to Sue Sylvester can be a little… traumatizing. But remember: she lives two hours away from Westerville. She can't hurt you."

Dave surprised himself by laughing, immediately breaking through his trauma. "Okay… you're right. I'm fine now. It's just that…"

"I know, I know. But really, once you get used to her… Well, fine, you never quite get used to Coach Sylvester. But you at least learn how to deal with the fear."

Their encounter at the coffee shop had been entirely random. Even in a town as small as Lima, it was large and populous _enough_ that running into Sue Sylvester had been a surprise. At first, Dave was polite but curious; he'd heard a lot about Sue from Kurt, but his mental image (which involved flames crackling in her eyes, horns, and a pair of bat wings) didn't jive with the reality he saw. That quickly changed.

_Sue looked Dave over with an appraising glare that he could almost physically feel. "I didn't know they let belugas into private school."_

" _E-excuse me?" Dave sputtered._

" _Let me stop you right there, Hamhock. You've said a total of thirteen words to me and I'm already bored." She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes briefly flickering towards Kurt at least twice. "But I suppose you deserve a little slack for watching out for Tickle Me Doe-Face. Just keep your gorilla-like paws to yourself. I haven't seen Porcelain here for months, and I can already tell this is not the time to be giving in to your sneaky gay urges."_

_Kurt coughed, sharply and loudly, which had the desired effect of taking Sue's eyes off Dave and onto him. "Ah, Coach Sylvester, Dave and I really should be…"_

" _One moment. I have some information for you about Will Schuester's clown college. I assume you want to hear it."_

_The two Warblers glanced at each other. Kurt tried to keep his shrug casual. "If you insist…"_

"It's not what she said, although some of it was pretty, um, odd." Dave was babbling now; Kurt could tell that much of it was trying to justify his reaction to himself. "It was… I dunno, _her_ – the way she looks at you and the way she… It felt like I was being beaten up by her _aura_ or something."

"If anyone's aura could inflict physical harm on another, it'd be Coach Sylvester's," Kurt agreed.

"Um… Kurt?" Dave started with obvious reluctance. "Are you… gonna tell the others about what she said? About New Directions?" There was a pause. "Because I won't if you don't want me to."

Kurt sighed. "I… don't know. I mean, I _am_ a Warbler now; I have to think about the Warblers first and foremost. On the other hand, I… don't want to hurt New Directions, especially not this way."

"On the other _other_ hand, you know we could use any sort of edge we can get," Dave pointed out.

Kurt nodded. "On the other other _other_ hand…" He grimaced. "I can't believe I just said that. But anyway, I have to consider the source. Using information from Coach Sylvester is just more salt in the wound, assuming she's not lying about it for her own purposes."

"Well, if you decide not to tell Wes and the others… I won't either."

"That's… thanks, Dave." Kurt's hands tightened around the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip.

"You have another hour and a half to make a decision. Want to talk about it?"

"No… I just need to think."

"I'll let you think, then," Dave replied softly. He turned his gaze towards the window, towards the scenery, urban and otherwise, rushing by. Kurt had long ago turned off the radio, so there was just the hum of the air conditioning, the growl of the engine, and the swooshing of blacktop under tires. It was forty five minutes before either boy said a word.

"I'm telling them," Kurt said quietly.

"Okay."

"I figure either way, I'm disappointing _someone._ It just came down to what's best for me, right at this moment."

"Okay."

"I expected a little more than just 'okay,' Dave," Kurt laughed, an edge of bitterness creeping in. "Like 'you're doing the right thing, Kurt' or 'of course you're absolutely right, Kurt.'"

"Can't say that," Dave replied quietly. "It's a tough choice. I don't know what the right answer is, or what will happen. But whatever you do, I'll support you."

It was almost funny, Kurt thought, how just a few words seemed to make everything better…

* * *

Blaine Anderson stalked the halls of McKinley High School. Not too long ago, he would've run a gauntlet of angry glares and fearful, fleeting glances, which he had to admit gave him no small amount of satisfaction, not to mention a feeling of power. But now, the only angry glares he got were from bullies like the hockey team, and the occasional snappish or bewildered look from his football teammates (though they had the sense to not do or say anything overtly hostile). The rest… Whenever Blaine or his fellow Bully Whips appeared in the halls, the general student population (at least the ones who gave them a second glance) had looks of… admiration. Relief. Gratitude. He thought he'd miss the old days, but oddly enough, these new reactions still gave him a sense of satisfaction and power… only in a different way. Besides, he was _owning_ his black suit, and he knew it.

"Oracle to Blue Two. Oracle to Blue Two." Artie's voice rang clearly over Blaine's earpiece.

"Blue Two, standing by." Each of the Bully Whips had a callsign; Artie's designation as Oracle was Sam's idea (he'd also insisted on the callsign Red Five for himself). There was little real point to it, but it sounded more professional, not to mention more cool/badass.

"Slushie alert in sector three."

"Copy that. Responding." Blaine quickened his pace; he knew Brittany was positioned at the other end of the school, so he was the closest to this newest alert.

He quickly arrived at the lockers near the gym. Just as the report Artie got from some random student said, three baseball players were walking together, each bearing a plastic cup brimming with slushie.

No need for backup on this one. Blaine simply planted himself in front of the jocks, his arms folded.

"Well, well," the one in the lead sneered. "Looks like a member of the Fag Patrol's gotten uppity!"

"Hey, isn't that Anderson?" another chimed in. "What, Beiste cut off your balls?"

Blaine didn't so much as twitch. Such gibes had bothered him in the first couple of weeks of the Bully Whips, but they had long since lost their impact, which never ceased to surprise him. "We don't need any trouble, boys," he said firmly.

"Yeah, right," the third baseball player chuckled. "There are three of us, and one of you. What are you gonna do, _yell_ at us?" The others laughed.

"Hell, maybe we should just slushie him now. Teach him a lesson."

"Go ahead," Blaine replied calmly. "Your parents would probably be very interested in why they're getting my dry cleaning bill."

"Aw, look at that. He's threatening to run to our mommies and daddies!"

"Why not? My guess is that it's the nightmare scenario for at least two of you." The one on the left in the back got a sudden case of twitchy eye, while the mouth of the one in front trembled just slightly. _And there we go._ His smug grin returned. "Besides, haven't you heard? Thanks to the Bully Whips, the administration is taking incidents like this _much_ more seriously. And don't forget Candid Camera." That was a total bluff, of course; he and Santana had proposed that tiny webcams broadcasting footage of offenders to Artie in real time be part of their arsenal, but even Figgins' "devotion" to the Andersons couldn't tamp down his fear of legal issues. But the rumors that they had them anyway persisted, which they all found _inordinately_ useful. And, of course, the Bully Whips themselves made effective eyewitnesses on their own regardless, especially with most bullying done in public. "You guys had your fun, but it's over now. So why don't you turn around and walk away? Or better yet, have a drink? You seem thirsty."

The trio stared with unreadable faces for a long moment. Finally, the leader put his cup to his lips, taking in a long draught in front of his surprised friends. "C'mon, guys. This is a huge waste of time. Leave the loser alone with his little power trip."

The baseball players slunk off, leaving Blaine, and the other scattered students watching in attitudes ranging from amusement to awe, staring after them until they'd vanished. He was pretty sure they weren't going to cause any trouble now. It was a pretty long encounter, all things considered, especially since the average time spent with any individual incident had steadily plunged since the Bully Whips started their patrols (a fact Artie never failed to crow over via elaborate Powerpoint presentations). Still, taking time like this was necessary occasionally to hammer home the point to the especially thick-headed: the Bully Whips were keeping order. If you didn't like it, tough. Certainly there was bullying done in private, out of their sight, but students were starting to step up, step forward, now that they saw that they would be taken seriously and that their tormentors were starting to face real consequences. There was a new world order, yet Blaine, in a way, was still at the head of it. He wondered whether that was the reason why it was going down so well with him.

But it wasn't just that, not by a long shot. Everyone was surprised at how well he took to Bully Whips duty, himself included. Sure, there was the intimidation, which he already knew he was good at, but the very act of standing up for someone else… It was, for lack of a better and less clichéd word, _natural_.

He wondered what Kurt would think if he could see things now. He'd probably be impressed at how much the school had changed, how much Blaine had changed…

Wait. Hold on one fucking second. Why was he thinking about Kurt Hummel? Why did he care? Well, of course he'd care a _little_ ; getting Kurt back to McKinley was one of Santana's goals, after all. But that didn't mean that Blaine had to think about Kurt on his _own_ time. He had no reason to.

Abruptly, he remembered a dream… no, a nightmare… from the previous night. He was at a costume ball, wearing his football uniform and a white full-face mask with a grinning (no, leering) expression. He was dancing with Santana, but couldn't help watching Kurt, who was wrapped in the arms of Dave Karofsky. At midnight, it was time for unmasking. He took his off, but there was another underneath, this one smiling beatifically. Annoyed, he took this one off, and there was another underneath that one. This new mask came off, and there was another. And again. The partygoers around him began to murmur. Santana tapped her foot in impatience, and Kurt and Dave started to snicker. He ripped off mask after mask, adding to a growing pile at his feet. Roaring in frustration, he finally tore off the last one, and Santana screamed in horror. Everyone was staring in fear, except Kurt and Dave, who were now outright laughing. His heart pounding, he found a mirror… and saw that his face was blank. Featureless. Santana was still screaming, but was almost drowned out by Kurt and Dave's laughter… He'd woken up covered in sweat.

 _Fuck, am I screwed_ , he thought bitterly.

"Oracle to Blue Two."

"Blue Two standing by." His voice sounded hoarse and weak to his ears.

"Student escort request at room B-235 in two minutes."

"Copy that. Responding." Blaine hurried away, trying to let in as much reality as he could into his mind to avoid thinking of the fantasy.

* * *

Kurt had never begrudged anyone for loving someone else. But with his tenure in the McKinley High School Glee Club, he also knew, better than anyone, how crazy love can make otherwise sane and normal people. Funny how much of the drama seemed to involve Finn; remembering his own role in the insanity still made him flush in embarrassment.

That was one big reason why he appreciated romance, the grand, dramatic, hearts-and-flowers gestures that bespoke huge and epic emotions: the honesty, the purity, and, of course, the _drama_ (the right kind, at least), so different from the revolving doors and backs of hands nailed to foreheads that so often seemed to accompany Glee Clu… er, high school relationships.

So it was refreshing when David (Thompson, to Kurt's regret) brought up the big idea with stars in his eyes and flutters in his heart. He'd been like that ever since his big Valentine's Day with Callie, not to mention the many days after; some of the other Warblers swore there were times David's shoes didn't even touch the floor. It was thus almost natural that when Kurt and Dave shared Sue Sylvester's intel that he was the one to make the suggestion.

"Why don't we counter? Do a big sexy number of our own? Show the judges that we're hotter than just a bunch of identical uniforms?"

A mutter went through the assembled Warblers like the tide. Some had skeptical faces, others excited. Kurt kept himself studiously neutral. A glance at Dave told him he was doing the same.

"Excellent suggestion, Senior Warbler Thompson," Wes said.

"But what do we know about sexy?" Trent Nixon cut in. "We can't just judge that on our own. Except Kurt and Dave, I guess, but they're not enough…"

"Why not perform for Crawford?" David suggested. "I can ask Callie..." Here a few Warblers rolled their eyes; David had been bringing that name into every conversation for weeks, including one about Chinese New Year. "... to have her sister gather a few of her classmates."

"We can record it too, take a look for ourselves afterward," Dave added.

Wes nodded. "So shall it be." He slammed his gavel, just to make it official. "Now, as to the issue of singers…"

Dave raised his hand. "I nominate David," he said with an evil grin. "It's obvious he's channeling the sexy times already."

David blushed at this. "Well… with Callie's sister in the audience, they might be biased…"

"Nonsense!" Wes declared with a grin of his own. "I think I speak for everyone when I say you'd be perfect." The others murmured assent.

"Fine… But I think I could use a co-singer…"

"I volunteer!" Everyone whirled to face Kurt, who had his head held high. "One gay singer, one straight… we've got all our bases covered that way."

"I approve. Senior Warbler Thompson, Junior Warbler Hummel, it will be your responsibility to pick a song and present it to the council and Warblers at large."

As the Warblers filed out of the room at the end of the day's session, Kurt noticed Dave staring. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just… a little surprised you volunteered."

Kurt stopped, his arms akimbo, fists resting on his hips. "What, you don't think I can do sexy?"

Dave didn't answer for a moment. "What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Whatever I say, I get humiliated." Kurt glared. "Fine… You're going to do… great, Kurt. Really."

He seemed mollified. "Thank you, David. That's all I wanted to hear." This, of course, was a complete lie, but that was a matter for later.

* * *

Days later, Kurt was staring at his laptop screen in horror. "Oh my God…"

"What's wrong?" Dave leaned over Kurt's shoulder, staring at and listening to the footage they'd recorded of the Warblers' performance for Crawford. It had gone without difficulty, performed at Dalton's arts auditorium after some negotiation with the administrators. "I thought it went really well. You killed your parts."

"What's wrong?" Kurt repeated in disbelief. "Look at me!"

"Yyyyeah, you look like you. So what?"

"Look at my face! I was trying to go for 'sexy', but look at me! Why didn't you tell me I looked like a constipated Buddha?"

"Don't be silly, Kurt."

"Oh, I'm silly now, am I? Tell me: do _you_ think I look sexy in this video?" A bead of sweat rolled down Dave's forehead as Kurt glared. "Well?"

"I, uh… You… Um…"

Kurt threw up his hands. "I knew it!" He leaped to his feet and began pacing the room.

"Kurt, you're overreacting. Why are you so concerned about it anyway?"

"Because this is the first time I've ever _seen_ how ridiculous I look! I mean, sure, there's the mirror, but now I have live video proof! I can compare myself to David, who looks incredibly hot, by the way. And now I can see…" He turned to the mirror and made a face. "All my expressions look the same!" He threw himself onto his bed face-down. "I'm going to be alone forever."

Dave chuckled, which earned him a quick flash of angry glare from Kurt. "C'mon, man, that isn't exactly a high priority for most guys. 'Single white male looking for boyfriend. Must be able to make sexy faces.'"

"It proves I have the sex appeal of a baby penguin." Kurt's voice was muffled by his face being planted firmly into the bed.

"It's not that bad. Want to see one of _my_ sexy faces?"

Kurt raised his head instantly, only to behold the sight of Dave's scrunchy, pained look. He couldn't help but laugh. "You look like you have gas! You're exaggerating just to make me feel better, aren't you? _Please_ tell me you are!"

"No, really. I'm not exactly the most, uh, experienced guy myself." Dave's voice dropped to a near-whisper, as if he were afraid someone was listening in at the door. "To tell you the truth… I'm kind of a prude. I mean, gimme a hot guy wearing nothing but a g-string, and I'll be totally turned on. But take that g-string away, and…" He made a limp-wristed "wilting" gesture, which Kurt snickered at. "I'm sure I'll be raring to go when I finally do have sex, but watching it? I gotta tell you… I think it's a little gross."

Kurt was now sitting fully upright, his face aglow. "Me too! I've tried watching, uh, 'those' movies before, but all I could think about was how those guys have mothers and what would they think if they knew… It wasn't arousing at all." He sighed. "I don't know anything about sex… and I'm not sure I want to."

"Whoa, there, Kurt, that's going a little too far, isn't it? I mean, unless you plan on remaining a virgin forever…"

"At this rate, I won't have a choice." He turned back to the mirror and tried the face again. It still looked exactly the same. "It doesn't even look like I'm trying, does it? I suppose I'm more of the 'romance' type. Maybe I'll just ask Mr. Ryerson for tips on how to be utterly alone."

Dave sat next to Kurt, putting on his own so-called sexy face; the latter giggled. "Well, then, I guess I'm just gonna be there too, completely alone right next to you. Hey, why don't we practice? Maybe we'll hit on something we can actually use at Regionals."

Kurt bent over double for a moment in mirth. "Oh, why not? We'll take turns." For over half an hour, anyone passing by Kurt's room would've heard regular outbursts of laughter and cries of "ooh, that was a good one" and "oh, I _gotta_ get a photo of this!" Any assumptions they would've made at such a time would've been completely excusable.

* * *

Burt Hummel was elbow deep in metal and grease. But it was a comfortable feeling – always had been, ever since he first picked up a wrench. The puzzle posed by a malfunction that had to be solved, the skill in threading together disparate parts, the honest sweat… Besides Kurt, working on cars had been the only other thing keeping him sane after his wife's death. (Or should that be late wife… The very conception of it still cast a shadow over his heart.)

It was late in the day; there were only a few more quick jobs to wrap up before it was time to call it for the evening. He grunted as he finally managed to get a bolt tightened to his satisfaction. He was starting to straighten when he heard footsteps approaching. A young man who was becoming _very_ familiar to him entered the garage, dressed in a blue and red blazer, overcoat, and scarf, guardian against the still-lingering chill. He carried a large manila envelope, and waved a little as he approached.

"Hello, Dave."

"Hi, Mr. Hummel. My dad has some more papers for you to sign."

Burt sighed. "More? Christ, I don't think I had this much paperwork in school. Put it by that tool chest, will you?" He watched as Dave started to do so. "Oh, while you're there, think you could hand me the carburetor?"

"Sure… Uh…" He stared helplessly at the array of metal bits and parts scattered all about.

"It's the shiny thing, over there. Next to the socket wrench."

"Oh, this?" Dave held up a piece of metal; Burt nodded. The younger man jogged over and handed it off.

"Thanks." There was a short pause as he gently placed it into the engine. "You didn't have to drive all the way down here, you know. Your dad could've just faxed or e-mailed the papers."

"Yeah, well… I needed to come down here anyway. My dad has another client nearby, and Kurt wanted me to run an errand for him too." Dave rocked on his heels nervously. "I'll see you later, Mr. Hum…"

"Just a sec." Burt's head emerged from the car engine. He grabbed a rag and started wiping his hands. "I'd like to talk to you if you have the time."

Dave swallowed. "S-sure."

"How's Kurt doing?"

"He's doing fine, sir."

"You're watching over him, huh?" The senior Hummel's expression was flat, neutral.

"I… I guess so. But Kurt can watch out for himself."

"I suppose he can." Silence. "Look, son, I'm not trying to meddle in Kurt's life…" Burt brought himself up short. _Well, that's_ exactly _what you're trying to do. And why not? You're his father, for Christ's sake._ But he didn't, couldn't, harbor any illusions about what his son would think of said meddling. _So goddamn independent, just like his mom…_ He sighed. "He… You… What do you two…?" Burt stopped.

"Mr. Hummel?" Dave asked, bewildered.

Burt almost asked, right then and there. But some small part of his brain (his cowardice? His sanity?) played a mental image of Kurt's likely reaction should he ever discover that his father asked _that_ question of Dave. And Kurt wouldn't be all that unjustified. Burt stifled a groan. He couldn't stop his son's pain at the hands of the bullies. He couldn't keep him from having to transfer away from friends he loved. But, he _could_ keep his son from emotional anguish, right this very second. _But only if you get the right answer_ , that annoying part of his brain told him. _If you're wrong, you could_ create _that anguish. Then what will Kurt do?_ He sighed again, deeper this time. _This won't be the first time I trust Kurt to do the right thing, to be strong… It probably won't be the last…_ "I… I was just asking… about that time I found you in Kurt's bed…"

Dave flushed. "Nothing happened, sir, I swear. Kurt was just being a good friend to an idiot. He didn't even sleep in the same room, and…"

"I know, I know. It's just that… he's had a hard time of it lately."

"Believe me, I know."

"And… he doesn't deserve to be hurt. He deserves everything good in life. People who won't hurt him or betray him. People who will be honest with him, and who he can be honest to in return." Burt cast a look at the teenager; he hoped it wasn't too harsh (though if it did scare the kid a little, well, that could be good too).

Dave nodded grimly. "I completely agree, Mr. Hummel."

"I'm glad you do." He turned slightly to gently let down the hood of the car he was working on. "But I'd also appreciate it if you'd let me know the next time you need to sleep off a night of drinking in my house."

"I am so sorry about that," Dave stammered. "But you don't have to worry about Kurt and me." His words sped up; Dave could almost feel himself starting to babble. "Even with… everything else, he's a lot like me. I mean, he doesn't even want to know anything about sex, and…" He stopped dead, gaping and pale. "Oh, God, Mr. Hummel, please don't tell Kurt I said that…"

"No, it's okay, Dave. All you did was confirm something I was already thinking." He ran his fingers over his bare scalp. "I was kind of thinking that maybe I needed to have that discussion with him anyway." Burt grimaced. "I'm not exactly sure I'm the person to do it, but…"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, my dad already had that talk with me." Dave smiled wryly. "It was embarrassing, for both of us, but we got through it. I kinda appreciate that he learned all that for me, that he was concerned enough for me to make the effort." He laughed a little. "Maybe you could ask him about it the next time you two talk – get some tips."

Burt nodded. "Y'know, that's not a bad idea. Thanks." He glanced at his watch. "Gotta start shutting down now. Thanks for the delivery, Dave."

"No problem, sir. Say hi to Finn for me."

"I will." Burt watched the teenager leave, trying to make sense of his own thoughts and fears. _God, Liz, give me strength… Watch over Kurt…_

* * *

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" Blaine stopped short; the voice was definitely Santana's.

"No, not really." And _that_ was definitely Brittany Pierce. He carefully peeked around the corner; the two of them were deep in conversation. Neither took any notice of him, for which Blaine thanked his lucky stars. He knew he should just slink away right now, let the two say whatever they wanted to say to each other without him listening in (a thought he never would've had just a few months ago, not with such juicy blackmail material… ain't life a kick in the teeth?). But for some reason, his legs wouldn't move. He just stood there as the two cheerleaders continued to talk.

"Please say you love me back. Please."

 _Oh, God, Santana…_ Blaine could almost feel this whole discussion rocketing towards a train wreck, with the same inevitability as a Road Runner cartoon. And why not? People like him, Santana… They never got what they wanted – only what they deserved.

"I can't break up with him."

 _And boom._ He winced; he'd endured hours of Santana talking about Brittany over the course of their "relationship." The vulnerability that appeared in her eyes whenever that name came up, a vulnerability he didn't even know she had… The pain of wanting someone you couldn't have…

"But what about the Bully Whips?" Santana's voice was pleading, on the edge of desperate. "I'm doing so much good! I…"

"I know that. But so is Artie. We're all doing this together, right? Santana, you have to know: if Artie and I were to ever break up…"

Blaine sank against the wall, shaking. The conversation soon ended, in tears, as he'd expected. He heard footsteps walking away from him and another, quicker set heading towards him. In seconds, Santana barreled around the corner, streaks running down her face. She nearly tripped over Blaine's feet; her eyes registered first surprise, then murderous rage. Blaine gulped.

"Having fun spying, Anderson?" she hissed. "Bet you were having a _gay_ old time, laughing at me."

Blaine fixed her with a calm, serious look, which he knew was the only thing that could possibly save him from a knee to the crotch or worse. "Santana…"

"What?"

He pulled her into a hug. She stiffened, then tried to pull away for a few seconds. Finally, she melted, grabbing onto him like a life preserver. He patted her back, which was shaking with her sobs; he could feel her tears soaking into his shirt. The couple stood there, in the thankfully empty corridor, for what seemed to Blaine to be forever and a day.

"We have to go to the next stage of the plan," Santana finally mumbled, her face still buried in his shoulder.

"I agree," he replied quietly. _Even if it's not for your reason._

"It's up to you, Anderson. Do _not_ fuck this up."

"I won't." The two separated; Blaine gently wiped Santana's teary cheeks. "I won't."

* * *

"…and now I have all these _pamphlets_ , and I… Ugh!" Kurt tossed the mentioned pamphlets at Dave, who caught flashes of _organs_ and _positions_ as they fluttered past his face. "God, I thought I was going to sink into the ground."

"He did it because he cares about you," Dave replied as he picked up the pamphlets.

"I know… It's just that… what even made him think of doing this in the first place?"

"No idea." Dave struggled to keep his voice even. "But you should make an effort to learn, y'know. Just so both of you won't have gone through that for nothing." He handed the stack of pamphlets back to Kurt, who handled them like a used condom.

"I suppose you're right. It's not like I can go forever not knowing." Kurt shook his head as he sat at his desk. "Feelings are weird enough to begin with. Like seeing Anderson kiss Rachel…"

"What's so weird about that? He was drunk and trying to stay in the closet."

"Yes, but… I think it was more than that. He wasn't trying to prove anything to everyone else; no one there except me knew. I think… he was trying to prove something to himself."

"Fool himself, you mean," Dave snorted.

"Maybe. But… I think it was more out of desperation than scheming."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It was just a feeling." Kurt sighed, staring out the window; it had been raining buckets for hours, and the glass was streaked with rivulets of water. "I'm starting to think he's not a monster, Dave. He's just as scared as I was, just in a different way."

"That doesn't excuse what he did to you, Kurt."

"I know it doesn't! It just… explains it." The two listened to the pitter-patter of the rain for a moment. "All I know is that with everything the others have been telling me about the Bully Whips, and seeing him at that party… I don't think he's the same guy who stalked me anymore."

"He's also a master of bullshit!" Dave declared. "He may just be playing you to get you to drop your guard!"

"If so, he's even more of a genius and an actor than we thought. I can't explain it; it's just what I feel." Kurt rose from his seat. "I hate to kick you out, but I still have that literary analysis to write…"

"Say no more. G'night, Kurt." Dave left, gently closing the door behind him. He strode down the hall towards his own room, nearly crashing into a young underclassman. What was his name…? Gabe? George?

"Hi… You're Dave Karofsky, right?"

"Yeah."

"I ran into some guy on the way in. He said he needed to talk to you."

"Now?" He glanced out one of the windows; the rain still poured down. "Who?"

"No idea. He just said it was urgent. Something about someone named Kurt Hummel…? He's waiting out by parking lot 2."

Dave nodded. If it was about Kurt… "Okay. Thanks."

He was walking out the front halls a few minutes later, rain beating on his umbrella in staccato pops like fireworks. Dave's shoes splashed into puddles as he made his way down the sidewalk. In the distance, he could see a figure standing under the glow of a lamppost; it was… dancing? As he drew nearer, he could hear an angry voice screeching through the blank, cold night. Then the face started to take shape…

"Anderson?" Dave gasped.

It was indeed Blaine Anderson. His "dancing" was actually his kicking angrily at an umbrella at his feet, turned inside out by the wind. His normally curly hair was plastered flat against his skull, and his clothes were soaked through, giving him the mien of a drowned rat. "Goddammit! God-fucking-dammit! Fucking piece of shit!" He gave one last mighty kick, and the useless umbrella sailed in a shallow arc across the pavement, splashing into a muddy puddle.

Dave gave a sarcastic golf clap, causing Anderson's dripping head to snap up. "Congratulations. Now that you've kicked the shit out of a defenseless umbrella, you can get the fuck out of here before I punch your face in."

"No, wait, I have to talk to you."

"We have nothing to talk about, Anderson. I'm going to go back inside now, where it's warm and dry, and you'd better get going before I call the cops. Or you can just catch pneumonia; I don't give a shit." He turned away.

"Wait! _Please!_ "

The words stopped Dave cold. It wasn't just the words themselves, though hearing the word "please" from Anderson's mouth was shocking enough on its own. It was the desperation in them, the anguish. _He could be faking again… But if he is, that deserved a goddamn Oscar._ Kurt's words from earlier echoed in his mind as he turned slowly around. Anderson was awash in the harsh glare of the lamp above him; even through the sharp shadows on his face, Dave could see the glow of all too familiar anxiety and despair.

"Please…" The word was a whisper, but it rang loud in Dave's ears even above the rain.

Dave schooled his features into a frown. "Okay. Two minutes."

Anderson took a step forward. "I need you to give something to Kurt." He started to fumble in his pockets.

"Why the hell should I do that?"

"It's just a letter." He finally came up with a plain white envelope nestled safely in a sealed Ziploc bag. Dave raised an eyebrow at this particular bit of preparation; Anderson must have noticed it. "I thought I might have to duct tape it to the door or something. I didn't want it to get soaked."

"Just a letter?" Dave repeated. "You've already sent Kurt a bunch of them. They helped drive him out of McKinley."

"Not this one. I… We… the Bully Whips… We want him to come back."

Dave stared in disbelief. "Seriously. And _you're_ the one asking this?"

"Would it mean any more if someone else asked on my behalf?" Anderson snapped. "We both know I'm the reason he's gone, so I have to be the one to fix it."

"Why the fuck should you want to 'fix it'? Why should I let your letter get within ten feet of Kurt?"

"I swear, he can ask his friends. This is for real. You and I both know he wants to come back to McKinley. This is his chance. I'm trying to make amends."

Dave looked over the soaked, shaking boy before him. He certainly _looked_ sincere, but… "And you're asking _me_. You know I could just tear the damn thing up the second you give it to me."

Anderson nodded. "I know. But I don't have much of a choice, do I? It's not like it's the smartest idea to give this to him myself right now, and you're the only other guy here whose name I know. Besides…" A ghost of a smile came over his face. "I think you want to do what's best for him." He held out the letter like an olive branch. Dave stared at it for a long moment, as if being offered a steaming pile of cow manure. "I know I have no right to ask this, but please… for Kurt's sake… I need you to trust me. Just a little. Just about this."

Dave stood, unmoving. Whether he was thinking, or whether he was just watching Anderson get further soaked by the rain, was something neither boy really knew. Finally, Dave's arm swept in a violent arc, snatching the letter from Anderson's hand.

"Thank you…" Anderson whispered. Dave grunted. He merely turned on his heel and returned to the safety and shelter of the Dalton main building, leaving Anderson staring after him.

Dave returned immediately to his room. Without even thinking, he opened the Ziploc bag, and pulled out the letter. The envelope, marked "Kurt" (what right did Anderson have to be so familiar?), was fortunately not sealed. Dave's hand dipped in, emerging with a single sheet of paper. He began to read.

_Kurt:_

_I don't know what you'll think when you see this. You might destroy it, and that's your right. I wouldn't blame you. But please read it before you decide._

_I suppose you've heard a lot about the Bully Whips. We're making a huge difference here, we really are. Figgins is actually punishing bullies. Everyone is safer now._

_You'd be safe too, if you returned. Remember, it's not just me and Santana; it's the entire Glee Club… your friends. They've been keeping me in line for months, and they'll continue to do so even when you're back. No more hiding behind my friends._

_Okay, I really don't know what to say, so I'm going to be blunt. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what I did to you. You didn't want me to kiss you… and I'm not sure I wanted to either. I don't know why I did it. But I did. Then I blamed you for how I felt, for kissing you, and made your life a living hell. I don't know if I can ever make up for that, but I want to try._

_I don't know how to convince you I'm no longer a threat; I'm not sure I'd believe me if I were me. That's why I'm writing this letter, and signing my name. This is your weapon against me. If I ever do anything even the tiniest bit out of line, use it. Publish it in the paper, give to Jacob ben Israel, whatever. This is your insurance._

_So please, come back. I know you miss your friends, and they miss you. Even if you still fear me, even if you doubt my sincerity… Don't doubt that._

(signed) _  
Blaine Anderson_

It took Dave's breath away. The words were just that: words, black ink on white paper. But the heaviness, the emotion behind them, punched him in the gut. It wasn't just the words, though; it was the intent. As it said, Anderson was delivering into Kurt's hands the ultimate instrument of ruin against him, a way to bring about everything Anderson feared when he drove Kurt from McKinley. Dave tried to imagine the Blaine Anderson he knew (thought he knew?) doing such a thing; he couldn't. There had to be something else behind it. There had to be.

But even if there was, that didn't change the facts. There was no way Kurt wouldn't take this opportunity and go back to McKinley, not with this potent weapon, not with his trusting nature, not with his homesickness. This letter was still the key to Kurt's return to McKinley, given willingly to him by one of his worst enemies. This was still Blaine Anderson willingly entrusting his greatest nightmare to someone who had every reason to use it.

Dave considered doing just that, giving Anderson a taste of his own medicine. But no, Kurt would never forgive him if he did that.

Then again, if he ever discovered what Dave was about to do, he might still never forgive him.

Dave opened his desk drawer, shoved the letter inside, and slammed it shut. He sat on his bed and buried his face in his hands. He closed his eyes and listened to the cold rain outside.


	17. Original Song 1: Do We Know Who We Are?

"This is serious business," Wes Montgomery declared. Normally, his listener would've rolled his eyes at that; to Wes, practically _everything_ was "serious business." But this time, David Thompson actually agreed.

"I know. Being with Callie these past few weeks… Dave deserves happiness like I've had."

Wes, for his part, didn't even remark on, or even seem to mind, the dragging-in of Callie's name for the umpteenth time. He'd long ago concluded that David didn't even realize he was doing it anyway. "One thing I've learned about Dave lately: he's a master at issue-dodging."

"God, tell me about it. I don't know how he does it. I'm usually halfway to my room before I remember that he avoided all my hints and questions about Kurt."

A shadow of doubt came over Wes's face. "You don't think we're… wrong about him and Kurt, do you?"

David snorted. "Seriously?"

A moment passed. Both began to laugh. "Okay, okay, stupid question," Wes finally managed to gasp out. "Anyway, I think I've come up with an idea."

The doubt came over David's face this time. "Maybe we shouldn't be meddling like this. I mean, if someone tried to steer Callie and me together before we were ready…"

"You said it yourself: he deserves to be happy. Besides, we're both his council leaders and his friends, so it's practically our God-given _right_ to meddle in his life."

"You've convinced me. So what's your idea?"

Wes's lips spread in a scheming grin. "It's perfect, and it's _so_ simple. We'll not only help out Dave and Kurt, we'll also get a killer number for Regionals in the bargain. All we have to do is…"

As David listened, he had to resist the urge to break out in a full-fledged evil laugh.

* * *

 _We come from the mountain…_  
Livin' on the mountain…  
Go back to the mountain…  
Turn the world around…

Kurt leaned back in his seat, letting Dave's voice wash over him with a smile. With Regionals quickly coming up, the hard decisions about song selection had to be made. When Dave made his suggestion, almost no one knew it, or even heard of it (not even Kurt), so he began singing it for the group, his body twisting and turning as he sank deeper and deeper into the music.

 _Water make the river…_  
River wash the mountain…  
Fire make the sunlight…  
Turn the world around…

Every day that passed was another day closer to Regionals, increasing Kurt's tension. The idea of another tie was ludicrous; this was the step at which _someone_ would have to lose out. Was he selfish to hope it wasn't him, to wish the agony of defeat instead on _all_ his friends?

_Oh, oh… so is life…  
A ba tee wah ha… so is life…_

It could be his imagination (and oh, how he hoped it was), but his father seemed more peaked lately, more drawn. He never talked about money matters in front of Kurt, of course, but he couldn't help catching snatches of conversation between him and Carole, words like "debt" and "loans" and "second mortgage." He didn't _know_ it was about him, of course, but at the same time, did he have any doubt…?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by applause; Dave had finished the song. Kurt joined in on the accolades.

"Good job, Junior Warbler Karofsky," Wes said.

"Even if I should be offended at a white guy doing Belafonte," David added with a grin.

"That may be a consideration, so I'm afraid that if we do perform that song, it'll be our closing." Wes straightened in his chair; Kurt was a little confused to see him fighting a smile. "We've already decided our opening number. And it's another that Junior Warbler Karofsky has suggested."

"Which…?" Dave's frown melted. "You mean…?"

"That's correct. We've been swayed by your passionate arguments, and have decided that you're right. We want to make a statement, and that song will do it."

The other Warblers began murmuring amongst themselves; Kurt remained befuddled for a moment before remembering the song Dave had spent the past week championing at council meetings. "So you're really okay with what's basically a romantic duet between two male singers at Regionals?" Dave pressed.

"If we weren't, we wouldn't have made this decision. Are you questioning our judgment?"

Dave held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I'm just glad you changed your mind."

"Not only that, we've determined the two singers who will perform this number." Wes finally failed to contain his grin. "The council declares that the opening song at Regionals will be performed by Junior Warblers Karofsky and Hummel!" He slammed his gavel, a sound that seemed to Kurt's ears like a thunderbolt.

"What…?" Dave gasped.

"Us…?" Kurt was on his feet; the three council leaders were smiling like the proverbial cats after the canary feast. The others were too busy staring at either him or Dave. He most pointedly did _not_ see Wes give David a low-five under the table.

"Yes, you. We expect rehearsals to begin… immediately. Do Dalton Academy proud!"

Kurt's heart sank as he looked about the room; many of his fellow Warblers were now in the midst of some rather disturbing actions: grinning like Wes and David, elbowing each other in the side, giving him and Dave thumbs-ups. One glance at Dave told him that he was seeing the same thing with the same sinking feeling. _Well, you wanted to have a lead role at a competition, Hummel. Careful what you wish for…_

* * *

"Life is a joke, isn't it?" Kurt remarked. "Even when you get what you want…" He heaved a sigh as he turned towards his listener. "But you understand, don't you? Your life isn't exactly perfect either. You're just as trapped as I am. And I can see it's really bothering you too. I wish I could help…"

Pavarotti trilled.

"Fine, I guess I could do that, but then I'd be in real trouble." Kurt frowned in thought for a moment. "On the other hand, they just gave me a lead at Regionals. What are they going to do to me?"

"Chirp?"

"Besides that." He leaned forward, closely watching the canary hop from the floor of the cage to the perch. "You're a little better… but you're still lethargic." He chuckled. "And I'm going insane. Talking to a bird…"

Pavarotti let out two high-pitched tweets.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I'll give you the respect you deserve from now on." Kurt smirked. He watched as the bird flapped his wings madly, soaring into the inches-high stratosphere before settling back onto the perch. "You know what? I'm not going to wait until you die from ennui. I may not be able to be free, but you can be." With a grim look of determination on his face, he snatched up Pavarotti's cage, sending the bird into panicked flutters about the cage. He almost literally marched outside, into the quad.

He took in a deep breath, exulting in the cool air filling his lungs. He raised the cage in his right hand, towards the sun, like a fabulously dressed Lady Liberty. "Fly, Pavarotti. Be free." Then he opened the cage door. Almost immediately, the canary bolted out in a mad frenzy of feather-flying flapping. "Godspeed," Kurt whispered as Pavarotti vanished into a copse of trees.

There was a mild cough behind him. Kurt spun around to see Trent with his hands in his pockets. "Uh, did you just…?"

 _No sense denying it…_ Kurt raised his nose defiantly. "Yes. I did."

"Um… _why_?"

"He was dying, trapped in that cage. He needed to be free." His tone was casual, yet with an edge of seriousness.

"Uh-huh. You _do_ realize that Pavarotti is a domesticated bird with _no_ survival instincts, right? That he probably won't last the night in the wild before he's eaten by an owl or something? And that even if he survives by some miracle, he won't know what to eat, and he'll starve to death?"

Kurt froze. "I… ah…" _God, I hope_ that _metaphor doesn't go too far…_ His shoulders sagged. "I'd… appreciate it if you didn't tell the council…" _If only so I don't have to face their mockery…_

Trent smirked a little. "Ah, don't worry about it. We'll just tell Wes and David he died. It's halfway to the truth anyway. We can dig a little grave and everything."

"Oooh, and I can sing something in tribute!" Kurt immediately brightened, Pavarotti and guilt temporarily forgotten. "Something tragic and poignant!" The smile slowly slid off his face. "Or would that be morbid, considering I'm the one who caused it…?"

Trent shrugged. "Up to you, man." To Kurt's infinite relief, he walked away; now he could feel like a complete idiot in private.

* * *

Dave groaned, rubbing his face. "What the hell, man."

"What, you don't want me to be your duet partner?"

"No! It's not that… It's just… it's pretty obvious what they're trying to do. It's like they're not even _bothering_ to be subtle. It's pretty insulting, isn't it? Trying to get us together just because we're both gay?"

Kurt's mind thought of a million ways to answer. But all he could actually pass through his lips was "I'm sure they mean well."

"Yeah, well, road to hell and all that. I wonder if they even realize how much they're putting you down?"

"How are they doing that?"

Dave opened his mouth, then stopped. When he finally spoke, he was drumming his fingers on his leg in a rapid Morse code of tapping. "Well, uh… For one thing, they don't know that you're taken…"

"What, Gavroche? He's a nice enough guy, Dave, but I'm not sure there's exactly a spark there." Kurt saw Dave's mouth open once more, so hurried on to his next words. "I know, I know, we have so much in common. But it takes more than that, you know? I mean, it's a great foundation, but it's not enough to just be a mirror image."

"Point taken." Dave sighed. "I was just hoping… you know… that it'd work out. That you'd have a boyfriend you could depend on."

He looked so crushed that Kurt couldn't help but scramble to make him feel better. "Who knows; that could still happen," he said carefully. "Give it time. Maybe… maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm misinterpreting what I'm seeing, or something will develop that isn't there now. Maybe then… love will bloom."

Dave smiled gently. "Yeah… I hope you're right." A silence stretched between them, their eyes locked. Finally, Dave coughed. "Um… Want to rehearse? Even if they did put us together for stupid reasons, we're stuck with it, so we might as well be the ones to win Regionals, right?"

"Of course. If only so we can rub it in their faces after."

"Hah! You're right; that's even better reason!" Dave turned to grab his sheet music and cue up the audio clip on his computer. It was, as Kurt would later realize, a _moment_ , one of those times when fate seemed to branch out into a forest's worth of branches, when great men ascend and nations fall, on the back of a single second, a single decision. As Kurt waited in silence as Dave started their rehearsal, he wondered if he made the right choice…

* * *

As the final notes of "Blackbird" faded from the room, Kurt heard a sniffle coming from some corner. The Warblers slowly rose and began filing out of the room. To his relief, everyone had bought the stroke story (could birds even have strokes?) thanks to Trent. He was lucky that no one was morbid enough to want an open-casket ceremony or something of that sort. Thus, the empty glittery coffin was now safely buried away from prying eyes, along with the truth, a truth he hadn't even told Dave.

Speaking of whom… where was he? Kurt had realized that he wasn't present at the meeting about halfway through his song. As if on cue, Dave himself appeared, jogging up the hall towards Kurt.

"Hey. How was the, uh, wake?"

Kurt shrugged. "It went fine. Pavarotti missed you, though."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Had a dental appointment. I hated missing your song, but I'm sure it went great."

"I think so. It was fitting. Don't worry about it; you missing one of my songs isn't a big deal. You'll hear enough out of me in rehearsals soon enough."

"Yeah, you're probably right. C'mon, let's get started."

Now, Kurt was an atheist, and nothing in his life so far had made him question this position. But Kurt followed Dave to their rehearsal room, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that _something_ out there was chuckling for some unfathomable reason…

* * *

Santana was in a rotten mood. This, of course, was not unusual. Not even seeing other students scurry away at a mere glance of her face was enough to brighten her mood. It was lucky that this was not one of her Bully Whips duty days, or she might have been tempted to say "fuck it" and start in on the bullying herself.

"'Not enough of an epic feel,' my ass," she growled under her breath. What the fuck did Will "Wonder Bread" Schuester know about epic music? Now their big Regionals song would probably be something cheesy and lame written by Rachel Berry, the original cheesy and lame. Just thinking about Berry's words coming out of her mouth made her nauseous.

As if that weren't enough, she already had her hands full with planning her prom queen campaign. Blaine, of course, was completely useless, forcing Santana to drag that bit of dead weight around with her while laying out her strategies to outmaneuver Quinn and the others. Even though she'd told Blaine that their position as the founders of the Bully Whips would give them an advantage, she knew that she couldn't leave anything to chance.

To top it all off, there was the little matter of _Kurt_ , the ultimate symbol of triumph for the Bully Whips. But that problem, at least, was something she could do something about immediately. She whipped out her cell phone and scrolled to the Favorite Number listing marked "Shemale." She pressed the call button and listened to the rapid chimes of the ten phone tones. She tapped her foot impatiently as she counted the rings on the other end (not knowing that at that moment, Kurt's phone was showing the caller as "666," although she would've been far from offended had she known). After six rings, the connection was made. "Santana?"

"No, Selena risen from the grave to offer you a duet in her next album."

"Nice to hear from you, too," Kurt replied drolly. "What do you want? I have a rehearsal to go to."

"What do I _want_? I want to know what the hell you're doing. Blaine has been going apeshit waiting for you…"

"Waiting for me to do what?" The genuinely puzzled note in Kurt's voice sparked possibilities in her head, but what else could she do but continue?

"Reply to his letter, dumbass. At least acknowledge it, even if you do toss it back in his face. I mean, I didn't think you'd ever give up an opportunity to lay into someone…"

"Letter?"

 _Aha…_ The entire situation exploded full-bore into her mind. In a sense, it was _so_ tiresomely predicable; she'd thought of it as a possible scenario the minute she suggested this whole course of action. At least it had the advantage of probably driving Kurt back here a whole lot sooner by cutting off all that tiresome agonizing. After all, what the fuck did she care about Karofsky? "The letter Blaine gave your gal pal Dave. You know, the one that begs you to come back to McKinley? And gives you the means to do it? It's pretty rude to keep us… him waiting, you know. It makes it sound like, you know, you're just ignoring the letter. Or you never got it because some overdeveloped modern day caveman kept it from you…" She paused. "Kurt, are you listening?"

"I'm still here," a tight, strangled voice said. "Actually, I need to go _speak_ to someone." He hung up without another word.

Santana stared at her phone for a moment, then snapped it shut. A smile spread over her face as she strode down the hall in an almost Brittany-like skip, feeling better than she had all day. Maybe she'd release "Trouty Mouth" as a single on YouTube. It could go viral, like Rebecca Black or that Hummel-like kid talking about Britney Spears. Yeah. That would be excellent…

* * *

Dave hummed to himself as he entered the empty lounge. Rehearsals for the other chosen Regionals songs were going smoothly; it was only that opener that still clouded his mind. He'd tried to get other Warblers to sit in on their rehearsals, just to "give opinions," but every one had suspiciously declined. _Not that it should matter. Kurt and I are professionals here. And friends. We can deal with this. And why not? It's not like we have anything_ to _deal with…_

The sound of the doors opening, then closing again, caught Dave's attention. He looked up and smiled. "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you…" Dave trailed off at the sight of Kurt's rage-reddened face. "Uh, you okay…?"

"How dare you!" Kurt rasped.

"How dare I…?"

"Where is it? Give it to me _right now_!"

Dave's heart plummeted to his liver. "Calm down. I don't understand what…"

"I know about the letter from Anderson, David!"

Dave paled. "Kurt, I can explain…"

"Oh, please do! I'd love to hear this explanation of why you decided to play God with my life again! Let me guess: 'I was just helping you, Kurt!' Oh! Or maybe that old classic: 'it was for your own good, Kurt'!"

"I…"

"You knew how badly I wanted to go back to McKinley! You _knew_! I know you don't trust Blaine, but you went too far…"

Something hot and dangerous flared up in Dave's chest. "Oh, so he's 'Blaine' now, huh?"

"I'll call him whatever I want! It's none of your business!"

"You _made_ it my business, remember? You're the one who asked _me_ for help!"

"I wanted you to _help_ me, not control me!" Kurt snapped.

"What, it's _controlling_ you now to not scare the shit out of you by letting you know that your bully… no, wait, your _stalker_ was here? Twenty feet away from your fucking door?"

"Yes!" Kurt cried. "And stop calling him that! He hasn't done anything to me in months! Mercedes even said…"

"Oh, God, you are so fucking naïve!"

There was a deadly moment of silence. "Naïve, eh?" Kurt said coldly.

"I call it as I see it! You're too fucking trusting to see that he's a bully and a fraud and he'll never change!"

"And you didn't think I could make that decision for myself? Oh, poor helpless Kurt, who needs a _big man_ to guide him through life so he doesn't get his precious fragile self hurt…"

"Don't put fucking words in my mouth!" Dave shouted.

"Then don't say what you don't mean!"

"I've done everything for you!"

"That's right: everything! Including manipulating me and lying to me!"

"That's _not what I was fucking doing_!" Dave was practically screaming now, his eyes bright like the noonday sun.

"You think your good intentions makes it all better? Well, it doesn't! Hell, it makes it worse!"

Dave's fingers tore at his hair. "Why the fuck do you have to be like this? You just can't admit you're wrong!"

"Oh, really? Well, why don't I start now: I was wrong to trust you. I was wrong to listen to you." Kurt's eyes narrowed. "'Stand strong', huh? If I hadn't, maybe I wouldn't have followed Blaine into that locker room. Maybe he wouldn't have…"

Dave stared with an unfathomable look. "You're saying it's my fault?" he asked hoarsely.

"I call it as I see it," Kurt parroted with a very Anderson-like smirk.

Dave's face hardened into something furious and deadly. "You know what? Fuck this! And fuck you! Go ahead! Run back into the arms of that psycho! See if I care! When you get hurt, don't come crying to me!"

"Fine!" Kurt shrieked. "It's not like I have any reason to stay here anymore!"

"Fine!" Dave tore open the door and stormed out. He didn't even register the small group of Warblers, including Wes and David, standing in the hallway, listening to the easily audible "discussion" with stunned faces. Dave quickly disappeared up the stairs. Kurt watched him go with a livid glare, then slammed the door shut with surprising, wall-shaking strength. This was echoed by the sound and vibration of another door upstairs slamming equally hard.

Silence reigned. A grandfather clock ticked away the seconds, the minutes. Wes and David slowly turned to each other.

"This isn't good," Wes finally said. David could only nod in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've known about this particular rug-pull since almost the beginning. I am so, so sorry.
> 
> Wait, no, I'm not. Looking back on it now, the last event of the previous chapter was a dead giveaway. What part of alternate universe did y'all not understand? :)


	18. Original Song 2: I Can't Wait a Moment More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the events of the past couple of chapters are pretty serious. As a n00b when I wrote this, perhaps I underestimated just how serious. So yes, this is going a little off what I first planned; I'm grown-up enough to admit it. Ah, well, if this 'fic started strong, then plunges off a cliff, that's my fault. :) Still, I hope (the royal) you stick with it.
> 
> Still, comments I've gotten indicate I still seem to be very much keeping in character, so this may be a good thing; it's made me realize that certain things I'd had planned for later weren't very well placed, pacing- and character-wise. I think the plan I have now is more natural and organic. And it's planted some seeds for future chapters/season 3. It is, however, a lot harder; stupid risk/reward ratio. :P

Burt Hummel sighed as he knocked on his son's door. He'd had moments like this before: when Kurt's mother died, when Kurt came out, when they'd first begun discussing transferring out of McKinley… As far as Burt was concerned, that was three moments too many.

And now number four. When Kurt had come home that Friday night, it was as if the entire house was plunged into some kind of… grayness the instant he'd set foot in the door. Carole had stopped humming that cute little tune in the kitchen. Finn had, as far as Burt could tell, started dying in that game of his with unusual frequency. And all Kurt had done was come in and shut himself in his room, without a single word spoken to anyone.

He'd stayed in his room until it was time for dinner. He'd come downstairs and picked at his food. He ate about half of it in a series of a thousand nibbles, answering attempts at conversation with one syllable words. Then he asked to be excused and returned to his room. Glancing at the drawn, worried faces of his wife and stepson (imagining them as mirrors of his own), Burt tossed his napkin onto the table immediately and went up to Kurt's room.

"Kurt?"

"Not now, Dad."

"Kurt, we need to talk."

* * *

Paul Karofsky sighed as he knocked on his son's door. He'd had moments like this before: when Dave's mother left, when Dave came out, when they had to deal with… that hard time… As far as Paul was concerned, that was three moments too many.

And now number four. Dave had come home that Friday night with bruises and bandages across his face and hands. When asked what the origin of these wounds were, he'd muttered "hockey" and left it at that, even though Paul knew full well that while Dave was an aggressive player, these went way beyond the damage he'd normally get in a game. As if by divine response, Paul had gotten a call from the very concerned coach of Dave's intramural hockey league.

It seemed that Dave had not only been at the middle of an unusual number of physically harmful penalties and fights at his last game, but he'd actually caused an altercation with a couple of members of the other team. It was only by hurried mutual agreement between the two coaches that no one was officially disciplined by the league, although it was made clear to Dave that he was skating on the proverbial thin ice, at least for the immediate future.

Paul had put down the phone with rocks in his gut. _Dave, picking fights…_ He couldn't help but remember the cheerful, round-cheeked little boy he carried on his shoulders, who patted his mother's head when she had a migraine, and hugged the family dog almost 24/7 after she broke her leg. Was this the same kid who used to constantly ask him, "how do I make it all better, Daddy?" Seconds after the phone call ended, he was at his son's door.

"Dave?"

"Go away."

"No, David. We need to talk."

* * *

Kurt was depressed…

_Dave was sullen…_

But Burt had finally gotten the story out of him. He had little doubt that there was more to it, perhaps more than even Kurt knew…

_But he had the general idea. Paul sat next to Dave on his bed, his hand gripping his son's left shoulder. He could feel Dave turn his body away, as if trying to will some kind of gulf to open between them._

Burt would go to hell before he let that happen. "Kurt…"

Kurt was on the edge of tears now. "I was just so angry…"

" _And stupid," Dave said hoarsely. "I just… I couldn't… I threw away my best friend, and for what?"_

" _Have you tried talking to him?"_

Kurt stared at his father as if he'd just suggested that he marry a Kardashian. "Of course not! Why would Dave ever want to see my face ever again? I was so cruel to him…"

"Maybe. But it sounds like you had at least some reason," Burt replied quietly. "That should put you two on equal footing."

" _No, Dad. It_ was _all my fault. Kurt was right about that. He… he's better off now. He won't have me poisoning his life anymore…"_

" _Stop that," Paul interrupted, his voice hoarse with something between anger and compassion. "We've talked about this, Dave, and I know Dr. Macey has talked about this too. Unless you want me to call Grandpa Murray and have him…"_

_Even with everything, Dave couldn't help but laugh a little. "Oh, God, please don't… I'm listening, I swear."_

"Okay, then." Burt took a breath. "You want my opinion?"

"Of course."

"It sounds like Dave made a mistake. A huge one, but a mistake. I don't know him as well as you do, and I wasn't there, but he doesn't strike me as the type to do something like that just because he wanted to control you. But…" He paused to consider his next words. "This was a breach of trust. That's not something to be taken lightly. Your reaction was completely understandable. But it's up to you: do you want to leave things as it is? If you do, you know I'll support you. But only you know how you feel."

Kurt was silent for a long moment. "I… I don't want it to end like this, Dad. Even if we never talk to each other again after… I just can't leave it this way. I need to know why…"

" _I don't even know why I did it, Dad," Dave mumbled miserably. "I just read the letter to make sure Anderson wasn't using me to pass on some kind of new creepy threat. But… I wasn't even thinking when I hid it. I just… did it."_

" _I think you know at least part of it," Paul replied, squeezing his son's shoulder. Dave nodded silently. "I thought you were talking this over with Dr. Macey."_

" _I am. But there's a difference between knowing what's going on and doing something about it, y'know?"_

_Paul nodded. "You are an impulsive kid sometimes," he said with a kind smile, which slowly faded as he regarded his son. "You messed up. I think we both know that. Now the only question is: what are you going to do about it?"_

" _What_ can _I do about it? I… I don't deserve someone like him…"_

"It's not a matter of deserving," Burt said. "In the end, you do what you feel you have to do. The two of you need to hash this out. I think that much is clear, with what you've told me. Though honestly, kid, I think you two needed to do this long ago."

" _Yeah…" Dave slumped against the headboard. "But it won't do any good if Kurt won't talk to me."_

" _If nothing else… you owe him a letter."_

"But what if… what if I don't know what to say?" Kurt asked. "What if we can't face each other, and…"

Burt chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "In all the time I've known you, Kurt, you've never been at a loss for words. You know what you want to say and what you want to know. All you have to do is… do it."

_Dave nodded, his eyelids drooping. "I… I think I need to think. Mebbe a nap… Thanks, Dad…"_

" _You're welcome, David." Paul left the room, gently shutting the door behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at a photo on the wall: Dave at twelve years old, knock-kneed on the ice with his hockey stick and uniform, grinning at the camera. Finally, he took his cell phone out of his pocket._

Burt needed only the shortest glance at his caller ID before answering; he was a little surprised he hadn't gotten this call earlier. "Paul?" he said in a half-sigh.

"Hello, Burt. I suppose you heard what happened from Kurt."

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"I'm sorry, Burt… I did what I could, but I'll understand if…"

"No, it's all right. I think this is something the boys need to work out themselves. But you know I'll stand by Kurt whatever he decides."

"Of course." Burt could almost hear Paul pacing on the other end of the line. "I can't offer any explanation right now; I think that's something Dave has to do himself. But… is there anything, _anything_ else I can do right now?" His voice took on a pleading edge.

"I don't think so… I think all we can do for now is wait…"

* * *

Wes and David stormed into the room without even knocking the instant classes ended on Monday. Dave had joked with them many times about their apparent lack of concern for his privacy, but not today. He simply sat on his bed, turning an envelope over in his hands.

"What do you need us to do, Dave?" Wes asked without preamble.

"We can spy, sneak, harangue…" David chimed in. "We can even bury bodies if we need to."

Dave looked up at them with a wry grin, the most positive facial expression he'd had in days. "What I need is for you guys to understand that you shouldn't be making excuses for me."

"We're not. We figure you know what you did was wrong. We're just offering to help you fix it."

"I don't know if I can fix it," Dave said softly.

"You should've been more honest with him," David said, not a note of chastisement in his voice. "And yourself."

"Yeah… I know."

"We can talk to him." Wes leaned forward until his face was even with his friend's. "Maybe he'll be more comfortable if we're the ones who…"

Dave rose. "No. I have to take care of this myself. Besides, there's some shit that I need to tell him… Stuff even you two don't know."

David's hand flew to his mouth in mock shock. "What? _More_ secrets? Dave, I'm offended!" He put an arm around Dave's shoulders in a manly half-hug. "Good luck. Just remember we're here for you, okay? All the Warblers are."

"What about Kurt?" Dave asked with a small smirk.

"Oh, him too. But you're obviously more important."

"Good luck," said Wes.

"Thanks. I'm gonna need it…"

* * *

The knocks on Kurt's door were rapid and heavy. He knew them quite intimately. Without hesitation, he got up and opened it. Dave stood on the other side, hand outstretched, bearing a white envelope labeled "Kurt."

"I think… this is yours." Dave's face was wrenched in almost palpable pain.

Kurt gently took the envelope and stepped aside. "Come in." Dave shuffled zombie-like into the room, taking his usual place at Kurt's desk. Kurt himself sat on the bed and drew Blaine Anderson's letter out of the envelope. After giving it a quick read, he put it aside and stared at his friend, who was currently examining his knees. "I think you should go first," Kurt said.

"Yeah, I guess I should." Dave rubbed the back of his head, his eyes not rising. "I owe you more than an apology, Kurt, way more. But I'd better start with that. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn't have kept the letter from you. I thought every day I had it about giving it to you; I was stupid and selfish and…"

"I'm sorry too," Kurt interrupted. "I said some cruel things to you I didn't mean, and…"

"But that I deserved," Dave snapped. "Every bit of it. You were right, about everything…"

"Dave, no! I…" Kurt shook his head. "What I don't understand is why!" he burst out, more confused than angry now. "You knew how badly I wanted to go back. You must've read the letter; you knew that I'd be safe…"

"No." The interruption was quiet, hoarse… Yet it stopped Kurt's words cold. Some emotion was swimming in Dave's eyes, along with the beginnings of tears. "I didn't know that. That you were safe." He choked on his own breath; a thousand thoughts had raced through his mind when he first read the letter, many of which he didn't even realize he was thinking. Now, his motives and fears were becoming all too clear, and he was still half-horrified to see he was putting them into words, in front of Kurt. "What if he slipped, just a little? Or stopped caring about anything other than getting to you? Or just snapped? Guys like that – they make you think they're sincere, and maybe they are at first. But they can change just like _that_ , and let other people deal with the consequences…"

The words tickled his memory, their familiarity poking at his chest. "Dave… you've known a 'guy like that,' haven't you?"

"He was just like Anderson," Dave almost whispered. "Handsome, charming, athletic. His parents weren't as rich, but they were connected, since both of 'em were high profile lawyers. They knew my dad, and that's how I met him…"

The wheels were starting to turn in Kurt's mind. "This… this isn't that boyfriend you mentioned, is it…?"

Dave nodded dumbly. "Jeremy," he finally said. "I was living in this suburb outside Cleveland; he went to my school. One thing you gotta know: this wasn't that long after I came out to my family. I was starting to work out, but I was still kinda chubby, my skin was all oily, and I still had my braces in. It was my first real relationship, too, so I was way too willing to give in to all his demands."

"Demands?"

"Yeah. He wasn't out, not by a long shot. We kinda… found each other out in private at one of the parties his folks used to hold for their law buddies, and he liked it that way. Private, I mean. I wasn't exactly out to everyone at this point, but I still got stares and rumors… that kind, y'know. So even though we went to the same school, we couldn't even be seen near each other or talk to each other. If we did accidentally run into each other in the halls, it was usually with his friends, so he teased me as much as they did and laughed even harder than they did." Dave smiled a very wry, ungenuine smile. "But then we'd make out in his room and of course that made everything better."

Kurt nodded encouragingly. He had a feeling he knew where this was going; it was a story that seemed to him as old as the hills. "Go on."

"I kept this from my family, of course; I mean, it didn't go so well with the whole 'stand strong' thing Grandpa Murray always taught me. But there's only so many times you can hear someone tell you that he loves you and then have to endure his taunts at school, y'know? After a few months of this, there was this Sadie Hawkins dance coming up, and finally, I somehow found some guts and gave him an ultimatum. I told him I cared about him – and I really did, Kurt, no matter how stupid it was – but that if he really actually meant what he said in private and not in public, he'd be my date to the dance. I told him what I told you: stand strong, stop lying to others just to please them, the whole nine fucking yards. Besides… I'd skipped a lot of those kinds of events, even before I knew I was gay, just because I knew I couldn't go with girls. I just wanted to be part of it as myself, y'know?"

"Yeah," Kurt rasped. "I know."

"Anyway, he said yes. It took him a few days, but he said yes. I don't know how I did it, but he actually meant it; I could tell. He even steered his friends away from me at school. God, that kind of hope… It can kill a man."

"Thank you, Morgan Freeman," Kurt grinned, unable to stop himself.

It worked, somehow; Dave snickered. "Yeah, yeah, whatever; it's a good movie. Anyway. Sadie Hawkins dance. I should've known I was in trouble when it became obvious that he didn't tell his parents who he was going with. But I figured he would have to anyway later. I mean, he was going to the fucking dance with me! We got to the school… And this group of older guys were there, waiting for me. I guess they decided they wanted to mess with me for fun before I made it in. And… I'd insisted that Jeremy walk me in. I think I saw he was starting to get cold feet, and I wanted to make sure it'd be harder for him to get away.

"And it was. They grabbed him before he could unhook arms from me. Said they wanted to have some fun with my boyfriend before starting in on me, especially when they saw who it was. Two of 'em held my arms while the other two… God, they hurt him so bad, Kurt… It was them kicking him while he was down… That was the worst part. They kicked him in the head so many times…"

The horror of that night was reflected full on in Dave's eyes, trauma Kurt had seen in his own not too long ago. He reached over and held his friend's hand gently. Dave didn't even seem to notice; he was too lost in the past.

"S-somehow," he finally managed, "I managed to get away from them. I remember elbowing one of them in the gut while he was laughing at what they were doing to Jeremy. I think I kicked at the other guy's knee after that; then I ran. I ran like hell. Like a fucking coward…"

"It was four against two," Kurt said firmly. "Even if they were just kids, so were you. You can't blame…"

"I know, I know… I've heard that from my family and Dr. Macey a hundred times…"

"Doctor…?"

"Therapist." For some reason, Dave seemed the most embarrassed at this one little word. "After everything else that happened after that…"

"God, there's more?"

Dave nodded. "After I was sure I was safe, I called the cops. When they got there, the other guys had already run, but Jeremy was bleeding out of… God, it was like every part of his head was gushing blood: his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears… He was in a coma, Kurt. For almost two fucking weeks.

"I was in it for the long haul. I was gonna stay by his bedside until he woke up. His folks appreciated that… at first.

"Then they caught the guys who did it. Through the cops, they found out _why_ they did it…"

"And their support for you vanished," Kurt guessed.

"More than fucking vanished. They blamed me. For all of it. I'll never forget them storming into that hospital room, screaming at me over Jeremy's bed. They said that I'd 'seduced him into perversions' or some shit, that I'd put him into danger. They didn't even mention the other kids once. It was all my fault, that I as much as beat him into a coma myself…"

"Oh, God…" Kurt's mind flashed back to their own confrontation. "And I blamed you for… Dave, I am so…"

" _Don't_ ," Dave interrupted. "Don't you dare fucking apologize. Let me finish." He took a shuddery breath. "Eventually, Jeremy woke up. He was out of it for a few days, but he figured out what was happening pretty quick."

Kurt paled a little. "Don't tell me…"

"Yeah. He sold me out. No hesitation. Said that there wasn't anything between us. That I'd been hitting on him for weeks, but he always said no. That we'd run into each other on the way to the dance, with him meeting his own date, a _girl_ , and he got caught in the middle." Dave paused again, as if exhausted – Kurt saw that in a way, he was. "That did it. Everything blew the fuck up. Jeremy's parents actually called fucking press conferences and gave interviews telling everyone they could get to listen about the fag kid who put their son in a coma. Then they sued us."

"On what grounds?" Kurt gaped.

"I forget; it was all above my head back then, and my dad did his best to keep me from it. Reckless endangerment? I don't know. Dad represented us himself; he shouldn't have, but money was tight. He lost a lot of billable hours having to be in court anyway. The suit got dismissed eventually, of course, but by then the damage was done. The story never really made it out of our town, and Jeremy's folks never actually said my name in public, but I couldn't stay there."

Kurt looked at Dave's hands; they were white-knuckled, his fingers tightly woven. "So we moved," Dave continued. "Dad tried to tell me we were making a fresh start, but I knew the score, even back then. Mom and Grandpa Murray helped us get settled here with money they couldn't spare. We found Dalton; I got a scholarship, but Dad can still only barely afford to keep me here. Last I heard from my friend, Gav's cousin, Jeremy's dating a cheerleader now." He laughed bitterly. "Isn't that fucking something?" A twin pair of tears ran their way down his cheeks. "So there you have it. My big old traumatic sob story. It's no excuse, not for what I did to you or anything else, but I owed you an explanation. The second I saw Anderson, it was like Jeremy all over again, and when he started harassing you…" Dave buried his face in his hands. "Fuck, I haven't even told this to anyone here; the only other guy who knows is your friend Puck, and he had to get me drunk to get me to spill. I'm so fucking ashamed…"

"Of what?"

"Everything. Myself. In a way, Jeremy's parents were right. If I hadn't pushed, if I hadn't threatened him, he wouldn't have gotten beaten up. He wasn't ready, but I was too stubborn and selfish to notice. I thought I was safe with you, because you were already out, but I went and screwed that up too. No matter what I do, no matter how much I work out, I'm still that fat stupid kid who ruined two families and can't even tell the most beautiful guy he ever met how he feels…"

Dave hadn't meant to say that much, not at that point. It just seeped out of him, caught in the moment. He hoped, dared to hope, just for a second that Kurt didn't think too hard about them. But… "You… you mean me?" he whispered.

"Shit."

"You do, don't you?"

Dave gulped, scarlet shame running across his face. "Y-yeah."

"I knew it," he replied quietly. "I don't mean that _I knew it_ ," he added quickly, "but… what you told me… that was a big part of why you kept the letter from me… but not all of it, was it?" No answer. "You were scared of Anderson hurting me… but it wasn't the only reason."

"No. That's the worst part. Guys like Jeremy, Anderson… They got the charm and the money to get everything they want. Then they treat it like shit and toss it away when they get tired of it. And they get to go on with their own lives, have everything, not caring what happens when…"

"But not even that's all of it." It was a flat, blunt statement that Dave didn't, couldn't, bother to deny.

"I think I kind of love you, Kurt," he finally burst out, his lips forming words that he never imagined forming, yet couldn't stop even if he wanted to. "You're just so… so smart and funny and great and…"

"Naïve?" Kurt said with a quirked eyebrow, in a tone that wasn't at all hostile or offended.

"No… Fuck, no… Trusting. You want to believe that people can change and you want them to be happy and that's one of the most beautiful things about you. I know I never had a chance at you; I knew that from the start, that you'd never look twice at some disgusting loser like me." He was beginning to babble, but he still couldn't stop. "But then you were my friend and that was so wonderful and I knew I'd rather have you as my friend than not have you in my life at all. I thought Gav would make you happy but I was wrong… Then Anderson gave me that letter and I didn't know what scared me more, him being the same or him changing. And it was all for nothing because I know you never could love someone like me and now I've lost you as a friend and everything's so fucked up, I…"

Dave turned towards Kurt to beg. For what, he wasn't quite sure; he was barely thinking. The second he faced the other boy, Kurt's lips met his in a soft, gentle kiss. It only lasted for moments, but in those moments, worlds turned and stars exploded, at least in Dave's head. By the time the two separated, Dave was gaping like a fish.

"Wh… wha…" Neither mouth nor brain was forming coherent words.

"I did that," Kurt said softly, "to prove that I mean what I'm about to say. I… kind of love you too. I've been attracted to you for a very long time. I was just scared too. You're not the only one in the world who is, Mr. Karofsky, and you have to stop thinking you are. You also have to stop thinking that you're somehow damaged or stupid or whatever else you're calling yourself at this very moment. I won't list everything you _actually_ are, but you… are a terrific guy. Or you can be." There was a moment of silence.

"But." Dave sighed.

"But." Kurt nodded. "You did hurt me. No matter what the reasons were, you did, and I know you realize that. You also have a lot of… well, a lot in your life to work through. I'll do whatever I can to help, but you have to help yourself, if only so _you_ can be happy. If anything… happens between us, I think… it has to happen on its own time. I just… It's all just too much for me right now. I can't take on your problems and handle my own at the same time."

"Yeah. I know. It isn't fair to you." A lump worked in Dave's throat. "Even if I get… I dunno, better… there's no guarantee, is there?"

"There never is."

"Yeah." The two regarded each other, the tears drying on Dave's face. "But… we're still friends…?"

Kurt smiled. "Of course."

"But I'm still on really thin ice, aren't I?"

"It's all still fresh, Dave. If we're going to heal, we need…"

"Time. Yeah." Dave extended a hand. "Friends?"

Kurt shook firmly, reminding him of that first shake on the staircase a lifetime ago. "Friends."

"Okay." Dave exhaled sharply. "Hey… I just realized… that duet. You okay with…?"

"Oh, no, you're not making me give _that_ up for a million dollars. Nor am I letting you weasel out of it; as I keep telling you, you're an excellent singer, and we'll need all the power we get. And thanks for reminding me; if we're going to kick New Directions' ass at Regionals, we have to rehearse!"

The normalcy, even if it was just a sliver, sent a smile shooting across Dave's face. "Fuck, yeah. And no time like the present, I say."

"No, indeed. No time like the present…"

* * *

Once more, Dave found himself in the middle of the backstage whirlwind alone, getting his emotional and mental bearings. Kurt had been freaking out over the upcoming performance, the highest he'd ever reached as a singer ("Oh, God, what was I thinking? Is my throat scratchy? Do you hear a scratch? Lozenges! I need lozenges!"), but had requested Dave leave him alone to, as he put it, "die in private." So he sang his scales and went over his melodies and harmonies as the bustle and chaos swarmed around him.

"Hey." The voice was only vaguely familiar; he turned to see Puck behind him. He was dressed to the nines, like all the New Directions, and damn if he wasn't completely hot.

"Hey," Dave replied.

"You fucked up, didn't you?"

"H-how did you…?"

"I figured you would as soon as you told me not to tell Kurt. Shit, dude, things like that, you keep 'em inside… they make you do stupid things. Believe me, I know."

"I wish I'd let you tell me that," Dave sighed, remembering now their exchange at Rachel's party.

"You should've." Puck's eyes flickered. "Kurt's not hanging all over you, so I assume he was involved in whatever dumb thing you did."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I knew it." He smiled. "Dude's stubborn, y'know. He knows what he wants. You may not get a second chance if you fuck up again."

"I know."

"And if that happens, _I_ may have to kick your ass for being a fucktard."

Dave laughed. "If I do… you have my permission."

"Good." Puck nodded. "Good luck."

Dave didn't know whether Puck meant with Kurt or with Regionals. He decided it didn't matter either way. "Thanks. You too." Dave watched Puck vanish into the backstage maelstrom. He straightened his tie. It was showtime.

* * *

As the music went up and Dave opened his mouth to sing, he tried very hard to think of pitch and tone and projection, and _not_ the lyrics he was singing, nor whom he was singing to.

_Tell me when will you be mine…  
Tell me quando, quando, quando…_

The Warblers had been relieved when he and Kurt insisted the duet go on as scheduled, Wes and David especially. The two had been wise and sensitive enough not to press for details or to evince any disappointment that the two weren't holding hands and kissing in the halls. Dave would probably end up telling them everything. Maybe after this, Regionals, was all over.

_When will you say yes to me…  
Tell me quando, quando, quando…_

Kurt's voice rang high and clear and so goddamn beautiful. Dave couldn't see the judges' faces amidst the light and shadow, but he couldn't help wondering what the nun was thinking at this moment.

_Every moment's a day…_   
_Every day seems a lifetime…_   
_Let me show you the way…_   
_To a joy beyond compare…_

Their voices blended and danced together as the singers crossed the stage towards each other, only to separate again, teasingly. Kurt smiled a little at him; was that a message, or part of the show? Dave didn't let himself wonder as they both returned to the main group of Warblers, the segue into "Raise Your Glass" in full swing. Being on stage… Dave had forgotten how good it felt, how free… It didn't erase everything that had happened, not even close. But it was as close as he could get, and it felt pretty damn good…

* * *

Kurt stood in the quad alone as twilight descended upon Westerville. This was the exact spot where he'd freed Pavarotti. His ears strained for the slightest trace of birdsong, his eyes searching for a flash of yellow. He sighed.

"Hey." Kurt didn't turn at the sound of Dave's voice; his mind was only beginning to settle from the turmoil. "You okay?"

"Yeah…"

"We did the best we could. I think we had a great shot at winning. It just… didn't work out."

"Not everything does," Kurt said. "Even the things we most want."

"Yeah. Not that it stops us from trying."

"Hey, some things are worth fighting for. Especially if you find happiness along the way for yourself." Kurt wasn't sure he expected a reply; the only one he got was the whistling of the wind.

"Hey, I gotta ask: why here? You could be thinking about Regionals almost anywhere. Why here?"

Kurt grimaced. "That's a funny story… that I think I'll tell you one of these days. One of these days far, far away from now."

"Fair enough." Dave's footsteps crunched against the grass, yet stopped far short of where Kurt stood. Kurt still didn't turn, but knew that Dave was keeping his distance. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. "So… You going back to McKinley?"

Kurt nodded, forgetting for a moment that Dave wasn't in front of him. "Dad's already talking to people. He won't confirm it, but I think the money was running out anyway. Classes will be a hassle, but I think I'm actually ahead now, thanks to Dalton."

"And the Glee Club? Are they gonna let you in for Nationals?"

"Last I heard, they couldn't. But Rachel told me that Coach Sylvester is having a 'talk' with certain people about my circumstances."

"I'm sure I'll hear about that on the ten o'clock news sometime." Dave chuckled, the sound dying in his throat. "I'm glad, though. That you're going back. I know you weren't happy here. That's really important to me."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Kurt's eyes and ears searched for Pavarotti as the sun disappeared below the tree line. He wondered whether the canary was enjoying the great big world it found itself in, or if it was crushed by it.

"I'll miss you," Dave said quietly.

"You mean you'll miss the gas you're saving. Because we were friends when we had to drive and text. We'll still be friends."

"Even if I don't deser… I mean… you're right. We'll still be friends."

Kurt couldn't help but smile. "Very good, Dave." It was a little thing, a _very_ little thing, but even the little things were progress.


	19. A Night of Neglect 1: Making Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, I want to touch on something interesting that I'd mentioned earlier, brought up in a couple of comments: the issue of dramatic desires versus character. I do realize that the argument was resolved pretty quickly; my original plan (and one I was extremely tempted to do anyway) was draw it out into "A Night of Neglect" - after Regionals at the least. However, I encountered here the same problem I did with the other plotting issue I mentioned in an earlier chapter: I simply couldn't seem to properly justify Kurt and Dave letting it fester for that long. Between their fathers, their friends, the closeness of their friendship, and the fact that Dave still had to give Kurt the letter (once that happened, I felt discussion of the underlying issue was inevitable), most justifications I could think of for letting it go on for longer than it did just seemed like asspull excuses. In the end, I felt that their personalities, not to mention the pressure their loved ones would undoubtedly bring to bear, made quick resolution the most logical course, unless I wanted to deepen the enmity by making the argument even MORE vicious, but that causes a whole bunch of other problems. It would not have been my first choice, but I decided that, much like Spock, logic had to win out over emotion in this case.
> 
> Enough talking shop. On with the show.

Dr. Macey's pen tapped against his notepad. He was a bearded man with a grandfatherly air, even though he was only Dave's dad's age, with a burly body that had not gone to seed even with his years. His voice was gentle and soothing, a surprise coming from someone with such wide shoulders and meaty hands. When he and Dave had first started sessions together, he'd mentioned something about a past with some government agency, but Dave couldn't remember now what it was. Still, as Macey always told him, very little of that mattered; one of a therapist's best weapons, if that was the right term, was their ears, and damn him if he couldn't listen. Dave always felt like Macey was lost in whatever Dave was saying, even if it was stupid shit like a blow-by-blow of his last hockey game.

Dave had just finished talking; it felt as though his words were still hanging heavy over the entire room. Macey seemed to be still absorbing it all. "You said," he finally started, "that you wanted to change. To really make the effort."

"Yeah."

"Is this for Kurt? Are you hoping that if you do, he'll agree to a relationship with you?"

"That's part of it. I can't deny that. But… I guess I'm starting to realize that I can't go on the way I have."

Macey nodded. "We've talked about motivation before, Dave. About how hard it can be to find it, never mind keep it up. If it were easy, everyone would have PhDs and be at their ideal weight."

"I know. But believe me, coming _this_ close to losing the best thing in your life forever is a pretty big fucking motivator. I swear I still have nightmares about it."

"You understand why Kurt felt manipulated."

"Yeah, I do. But you gotta believe me, I wasn't consciously trying to. I don't think so, anyway… Arrgh, I can't believe my own fucking head is confusing me."

"The human mind is a complex machine. Sometimes the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing, especially when emotion is involved. It does all make sense in the end... in a way. But it takes a lot of self-examination and honesty before you get to that point, and sometimes even then..."

Dave groaned. "Why can't it be easy? Just for a little while?"

Macey chuckled. "We all ask ourselves that. I'd personally love it if I were getting all the unfair good luck for a while." He put his pen and notepad down on his desk. "Mind if I pass on some advice?"

The question made Dave laugh. "I'd hope you would, or my dad's insurance is wasting our money."

"Okay, then. Forget about Kurt. I mean..." He held up a hand to forestall Dave's protests. "Forget about what he thinks of you or your relationship with him. Sure, use it as your motivation, as you said, but otherwise, focus on yourself. Be a happier person. Be a better person. We've gone over this again and again: your self-image frankly sucks."

Dave wrinkled his nose. "What kind of therapist says 'sucks'?"

"One with _three_ teenage children who love to talk? But that's getting away from the point. You have the motivation now to actually try some of those techniques we've talked about, to stop living in your own head so much. Being in your glee club has done wonders for that part; you've improved immensely since you started seeing me. But you're not quite there yet. Once you've decided to (pardon the cliche) love yourself, I think everything else will fall into place."

Dave turned the words over in his mind for a moment. They, or similar, had been said to him in this office before. Every other time, he'd leave musing on them, maybe even try out his advice, but soon slide back into his old habits, his old thought patterns. It was just so... easy to do. This time, though... it felt different. As he'd said to Dr. Macey, getting the scare of your life did that to you. It felt like this time, he'd actually not only _listen_ , but maybe fucking _do_ for once.

Dr. Macey seemed to read this on Dave's face, and nodded. "So, do you have any ideas for how to make this happen?"

"I... I think so. I had this idea... I was thinking about Kurt..."

"One more thing I'll have to thank this Kurt for if I ever meet him, I'll bet," Macey said with a smile.

"Join the club. Anyway, I was thinking about what's important to him - y'know, the gay stuff - and it sort of occurred to me that even though I'm gay and fine with it, that maybe... I have a responsibility too... to other kids like me. To help others like Kurt wants to. Pay it forward, help others who don't have the awesome family I do."

"Just because you're part of a group, any group, doesn't necessarily mean you _owe_ anything to it. But at the same time, we're social animals, and there's nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah. I was thinking of..." He paused for a moment. "I dunno, though. I feel like my motives are... tainted, I guess? Like maybe I'm _unconsciously_ doing this just to get Kurt? Like I'm still being selfish?"

Dr. Macey played with his pen as he spoke. "Some psychologists and philosophers think _everything_ we do has some so-called 'selfish' motive in it, even altruism. I'm not sure about it myself, but I don't think you should let it stop you, or feel guilty about it. 'The universe is run by the complex interweaving of three elements: energy, matter, and enlightened self-interest.'"

"Who said that? Freud or someone?"

Dr. Macey smiled. "G'Kar, _Babylon 5_."

Dave snorted a laugh. "You and Kurt's friend Sam would have a lot to talk about."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment, so let's pass that by for now. Continue with your idea."

"Well, I think I know where I need to start..."

* * *

At that moment, Kurt was having a weighty conversation of his own. "I'm sorry. You're a great guy. But..."

"Say no more," Gavroche replied. "I completely understand. If the chemistry isn't there, then there isn't much point to trying to mix it up in a little beaker, is there?"

Kurt felt ridiculously relieved, snapping his head back as he downed the rest of his coffee as if it were a shot of rotgut. "Thanks... It's been a bit of a rough few weeks..."

Gavroche nodded sympathetically. "It's David, is it?"

"Yes, but how did...?"

"We've been friends for a while. I'd heard about the gay-bashing and Dave's boyfriend from my cousin as it happened, so when he asked me to watch over Dave when he moved here, how could I say no? We do the girl talk thing occasionally. And the shoulder-crying thing, a few days ago." Gavroche's lean face seemed heavier, his usually sparkling eyes duller. "It really hurt me to see him like that, you know," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't worry about it. Actually, I think a lot of what happened is my fault."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Yours? How?"

"This isn't the first time he's tried to push someone away doing the 'I'm not worthy' bit. I think he's afraid that if he's not on top of things all the time, the next guy he loves will be in a hospital bed the same as his boyfriend. I should've seen what he was doing as soon as he asked me to take you to coffee as a favor. But you were just so adorable..." Here Kurt couldn't help but blush. "I just ignored every instinct I had screaming at me to stop. And look what happened..."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm much more flattered than upset. And I'm going to tell you what I've told Dave many a time: don't blame yourself. We're all big boys now; we can make our own decisions." Kurt sighed. "I just wish Dave would realize that..."

"Making our own decisions? Applied to you, or himself?"

Kurt blinked; he had neither expected the question nor even thought of it. "Both... I suppose. Though maybe more himself..."

Gavroche looked around the room, as if expecting Dave to suddenly appear at any moment. Satisfied, he leaned forward with an almost conspiratorial air. "Mind if I dish a little about Dave?"

Kurt grinned wickedly. "Please do."

"Oh, it's nothing exciting like embarrassing stories of him as a child. Just my opinion. But have you ever seen _As Good As It Gets_?"

"I have. Greg Kinnear isn't quite my type, but he's cute enough."

"I know! Anyway, remember that one scene with Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt?"

Kurt rolled his eyes before he could stop them. "There were _lots_ of scenes with Jack Nicholson and Hel... Wait." He paused, the mental light bulb growing warmer and brighter. "You mean...?"

He didn't even have to finish the sentence; Gavroche merely nodded sagely. "'You make me want to be a better person.' I think... you're Helen and Dave's Jack."

"Helen Hunt... Hmm. Could do worse, I suppose." Kurt turned his cup over in his hands even as he was turning the thought over in his mind. "You really think so?"

"Like I said, Dave isn't exactly my closest friend, but I've known him long enough, and I've never seen him like this before. He's going to try. I have no idea if he'll _succeed_ or not, but he's going to _try_."

"I hope he does," Kurt replied quietly. "He deserves to be happy, and I hate seeing him standing in his own way."

"I feel the same."

"I know I've sounded really harsh on him, and I don't mean to, but... like I said, it's been a rough few weeks. I really hope you're right about him making an effort. Because I think once he starts, it'll be hard for him to stop."

"Like peanuts?" Gavroche said with a grin. "Or potato chips? Or Nicki Minaj?"

"Kind of," Kurt laughed.

"Mmm, I'm going to miss you when you move back to Lima. Talking with you has been just _so_ refreshing. Almost like I had a long-lost twin brother!"

"Agreed. Maybe that's why we couldn't get anything going. Too incestuous."

"Ah, but I love _Flowers in the Attic_." Gavroche chuckled. "Still, at least we have each other's contact information. And we have _so_ much more to talk about."

"Like?" Some part of Kurt wanted to turn the topic back to Dave. But at the same time, he knew he couldn't obsess. That way lay madness and potential disappointment. It wasn't just Dave that had to give Kurt some time; the reverse had to be true as well. It was unreasonable, he knew, to expect Dave to become a new man overnight, no matter how convenient and happy that would make everyone. Patience. He had to have patience. And there were so many reasons to hope, Kurt found himself having to tamp down his expectations. Still, there was such an edge of anticipation where Dave was concerned that he almost couldn't help it. And did he want to...?

Gavroche interrupted Kurt's train of thought with a wide smile; he rubbed his hands in an odd air of anticipation. "Well! Have you ever heard of a school called NYADA...?"

* * *

"25,000 times...?" Tina frowned at the board, opening her mouth to say something. But she stopped. What would be the point, really?

"That's... a _lot_ of saltwater taffy, Mr. Schue," Mercedes remarked.

"But if we knuckle down and work hard, we can do it!" Will Schuester replied enthusiastically.

"How?" Lauren asked. "Even if we sold four to everyone we met, we'd still need to sell to _five thousand_ people. Are there even five thousand kids here who _like_ taffy?"

"Well, they don't have to like it to buy it. What about your Bully Whips clients? I hear kids talking about you guys all the time in the halls; you're getting really popular now with a big segment of students." Will's face was practically glowing; it was finally happening. The Glee Club - _his_ Glee Club - was not only going to Nationals, but they were becoming _liked_ \- sometimes even adored! Granted, it happened mostly because of something outside of performing, and this popularity definitely didn't reach all or even most segments of McKinley's student population, which was tragic, but he wasn't picky. Popularity in any amount meant more attention. More attention would lead to more money and auditions in the future, which in turn would lead to even more. Yes sir, the future was looking brighter than he ever could've hoped. "If you asked them to... what's the matter?"

The entire room, it seemed, was shifting uncomfortably, except perhaps Santana, and even she had a bit of one of her _looks_ on her face.

"Really, guys... What's the problem?"

Rachel raised her hand slowly. "Mr. Schuester... I don't think it's right."

"What's not right?"

"We didn't join the Bully Whips to be popular or to get benefits for ourselves," Sam chimed in. "We did it because it was the right thing to do. Because..." He trailed off.

 _Because we failed Kurt, and we had to make up for that._ No one said those words. But they might as well have belted it out in four-part harmony at the top of their lungs.

Will's face softened. "Look, I understand. And I'm not asking you to start giving the hard sell to someone you just rescued from a slushie. But I think the people you help will _want_ to give back. You should let them."

Here Quinn spoke up. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm _not_ going to have my hand out begging for pocket change. We should be better than that. I have my pride." There were a few murmurs of agreement, but Will could see that generally, the expressions he saw on his students' faces were more along the lines of hesitation and indecision. "I mean, taffy? Could it be more obvious that we're desperate?"

"We sort of are," Will answered. "If we're going to Nationals, we need..." He stopped; Brittany had leaned over towards Artie, and was madly whispering in his ear. The other was replying in snappish hisses, and both their voices were becoming louder.

"Tell them!" Brittany was saying.

"We can't add to their problems! We can handle..."

Will cleared his throat. "Uh, Brittany? Artie? Is there something the matter?"

"We need $250!" Brittany burst out. Artie shot a glare at her.

"Why?"

"For the Brainiacs," Mike replied, his voice heavy with reluctance. _The cat's out of the bag. Might as well._ "We got to the finals of the Academic Decathlon, but we don't have the money to go."

"So when Brittany said 'we'..." Quinn began in a confused tone, "you mean _she..._ "

Tina shrugged. "She's the reason we're in the finals to begin with." Disbelieving stares erupted throughout the room (though no one noticed that Santana's was more along the lines of awe, if the emotion even had a name). Tina _had_ been about to explain further, but something about those looks stirred a wicked impulse in her. She decided to let the matter hang that way. "It's true."

"Well, I'm not about to let your dreams go by the wayside either," Will said with a firm nod. He went back to the board and adjusted a figure. "Our goal is now $5250."

"That's even _more_ taffy," Lauren said with a bit of an eye-roll.

"Yes, I know. If anyone has a better idea right now, I'd love to hear it."

There was now nothing but silence.

* * *

Burt had been muttering under his breath during the entire drive to McKinley. Kurt couldn't quite make out some of the words, but as far as he could tell, it was a sort of stream of consciousness rant about both Blaine Anderson and his son's "bright ideas." When they arrived at the school, Burt nearly twisted the ignition switch out of the car when he turned it off. He faced his son with a sour look. "You're _really_ sure you want to do this?"

Kurt sighed. "For the hundredth time, Dad, _yes_."

"Don't care about the money," Burt said insistently. "Don't even start to think about it. We can figure out..."

"Dad! It's _all right_. Really. Now can we go in?"

His grumbling starting again, Burt led the way to Principal Figgins' office. The administrator was sitting behind his desk with a beaming smile. Blaine Anderson sat nearby, alone; Burt gave him an evil glare. To the older man's surprise, the teenager seemed to shrivel a little under the look; Burt had expected the little punk to put on one of those defiant sneers he remembered so well. Before he could ponder this oddness, the two Hummels were in their seats, and Figgins was speaking.

"I am so happy I could preside over this occasion," Figgins began, looking very much like he _was_ that happy. "Young Mr. Anderson has been doing _so_ much to make this school safer. And now a student who left is returning thanks to his influence!"

It was only with effort that Kurt bit back the dozens upon dozens of responses that flitted through his mind. One glance at his father told him that he too was having difficulty staying silent.

"I wanted to apologize to both Kurt and his father for everything," Blaine began. "I understand the hardship I put both of you through, and I'm working hard to make up for it, make sure it doesn't happen again." Here he turned to Burt, who was, despite himself, impressed at the way Blaine was able to look him in the eye. "For what it's worth, sir, I want to give you my personal assurance that Kurt will be safe, _especially_ from me. I chose the Glee Club to be my main Bully Whips staff precisely for that reason, among others. Even if you don't trust me, you can trust them. But I'm a different person now." Kurt vaguely remembered similar words in Blaine's letter, though of course he hadn't shown it to his father.

"I for one believe him completely," Figgins said with confidence. _Of course you would,_ Kurt thought. Though why would Figgins _need_ to believe Blaine if he was as innocent as he'd once claimed? Kurt was sure that the logic never occurred to Figgins, and probably never would.

"It's not that easy," Burt said bluntly. "You terrorized my son in a way that went above and beyond anything I think is normal. I had to spend money I didn't have to keep Kurt safe. From _you_."

"But in the end," Kurt interrupted with as firm a voice as he could take, "I believe it should be my decision. At the very least, I should have a say. I've been talking it over with my father, and I do want to return." He paused. "However. I would like to speak with Blaine in private for a moment."

Blaine tried to keep his face impassive. _Was that the first time he's called me by my first name? I don't remember..._

Burt didn't even make that effort. "Are you sure...?"

"Yes," Kurt sighed, "I'm _sure_. You can wait right outside; if anything happens, even a false word, I'll end things at once."

Figgins was already rising from his chair. Burt rubbed his face and wondered for not the first time if he'd been a little _too_ good at raising Kurt to be able to stand on his own two feet. "Fine. But the instant I see any funny business..."

"Glass walls, Dad. I'll be fine." He waited until the two adults left the room and the door snapped closed behind them. For the first time in months, Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson were pretty much alone together. They stared at each other for a long while; Kurt noticed that the other's eyes were wandering nervously towards the glass wall, behind which Figgins was trying to talk to Burt, who was glaring intensely back at the two. _Looks like I'll have to start..._ Kurt cleared his throat. "I'd like you to tell me the truth."

"A-about what?"

"Why. Why are you doing this? The Bully Whips, the letter... Dave was right about one thing: you aren't doing this on your own out of the kindness of your heart." Kurt winced inwardly; that was a little harsher than he'd intended. Still, there were some honest emotions being displayed here, so he might as well go all the way. "I mean, it's _so_ different from what you've done before... You owe me the truth."

Blaine nodded. "Yeah. I guess you deserve that at the least." He sighed, running his fingers through his curly hair. "It's Santana. She's blackmailing me."

"With wh...?" Kurt stopped; of _course_ it would be _that_. "Why? What's in it for her?"

Blaine opened his mouth to speak, only at the last second abruptly realizing that he simply couldn't say _everything_. Not that he owed Santana anything - quite the opposite in fact. But he couldn't help simply saying, "She thinks she can win prom queen with the Bully Whips, especially if you come back."

"I see. I have to admit, I have a grudging respect for her capacity for plotting. A Latina Eve Harrington."

Blaine was about to ask who that was, but he was suddenly seized with a certainty: if he didn't say what he wanted to say _right this moment_ , he never would. So he stumbled on, his tongue nearly tripping over itself in eagerness. "But... this is going to sound crazy coming from me, but... being in the Bully Whips... It really _has_ changed me, Kurt." Kurt sucked in a breath; he remembered how Blaine addressed the letter: by his first name. It really was a big step. Acknowledging Kurt like that, even in that small way... He was starting to get out of the isolating mentality that kept him thinking of Kurt as an _other_ with nothing to do with him. "I'm really _not_ the same guy I used to be. I'm still not sure if I'm really... y'know..."

"Gay. It's just a word, Blaine, you can say it. Gay." Kurt pointedly did _not_ mention that he got the distinct impression that the uncertainty really wasn't as deep as Blaine was making out. But that was a matter for another time; he didn't want to interrupt Blaine's train of thought too much.

"Yeah. Okay..." He paused for a moment, but just barely. "Gay. But either way, I just... I don't think I can imagine going back to the way I was. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was just so... empty. Now... I'm actually making a difference. A real, positive difference. I didn't think it'd feel so..."

"Good?"

"Yeah. It's like what I get from the other guys by slinging slushies and pushing people around, only... it's _real_."

Kurt nodded. "I believe you."

"You do?" The wild hope in Blaine's voice stirred some kind of thought or feeling or _something_ in Kurt, but it was elusive; it was gone almost before he even realized it was there. Was it pity? Or...?

"I do. I'll return to McKinley. On one condition."

Blaine's shoulders sagged. "Which is?"

"The Bully Whips and your change of heart are all well and good, but there needs to be more, especially if things are to keep getting better beyond our graduation. You will help me found a GSA here at McKinley."

"A what?"

"Gay-Straight Alliance. It's a student organization that supports gay students and creates a safe environment for them." He continued on even as he saw panic bloom on Blaine's face. "See, there's your out right there; it's not a Gay- _Straight_ Alliance without straight people. Like yourself." A small smirk came over Kurt's face before he could stop it; he quickly and irritatedly stomped it down. "You help me found it and run it. That's all. You don't have to start singing show tunes in the halls or anything of the kind. And who knows; maybe you'll learn something doing it. Something important. Something valuable."

Blaine was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped, his forearms resting on his knees. One of his legs jumped and twitched, as if already preparing to launch him to his feet and out the door. Finally, he spoke. "Yeah. Sure. I can do that."

"Excellent! Then you can spread the news to the other Bully Whips: I shall return!"

"Swell." Blaine had meant that to be at least mildly sarcastic, but he was startled to realize he actually _meant_ it. Of course, he didn't say or give any sign of that. Why would he?


	20. A Night of Neglect 2: Sunshine After the Rain

"If for any reason Miss America is unable to fulfill her duties…" Kurt muttered under his breath.

"What?" Mercedes paused in her recitation of recent events to give her friend a puzzled look. Dave stirred in the seat next to Kurt; he'd heard every word, and he knew _exactly_ what Kurt was thinking (funny how that seemed to happen so often, not that either boy really consciously realized it or thought about it). Although the Lima Bean was buzzing, the conversation still flowed freely and easily, like a mountain river babbling lazily along.

"Nothing. You were saying?"

"I heard that Mr. Schuester got the idea from Ms. Holliday," she continued. "And I get to do Aretha!" Mercedes nearly squealed in excitement (something she would've slapped herself for under normal circumstances). "She's the perfect close to the show, and…"

"You're doing the closing song?" Kurt asked in mild surprise. "I would've thought Rachel would be all over that."

Mercedes shrugged. "Well, she hasn't said anything _yet_ , but…"

"But you know her."

There was a short pause, then a sigh from the other side of the table. "Yeah, I do. Well, she can't get what she wants _all_ the time. It'll be different. I hope." Mercedes patted Kurt's hand. "I really wish you could've come back in time for this."

"I know. But look at it this way: now I can buy a ticket and subsidize my own airfare to Nationals."

"I guess so. You're coming too, aren't you, Dave?" Mercedes' voice was a little anxious here, a little hesitant.

Dave sighed. Many of Kurt's friends had been walking on eggshells recently around him. They didn't know all the details about what went down between him and Kurt; they just knew it was _bad_ , and they were afraid of causing some kind of flare-up by saying the wrong thing - not to mention the fact that they had no real idea to what extent things were patched up between them. Dave appreciated it, in a weird way; they weren't glaring and telling him to fuck off, so they seemed to like _him_ (apart from being just Kurt's friend) to some extent. That buoyed him more than he expected. "Of course."

Kurt had, in fact, asked Dave if he wanted to accompany him to this "Night of Neglect" earlier that week. Dave's first instinct, usually his strongest instinct, screamed at him the moment he was asked: _Why? Why would Kurt want you around him? Do you really think he forgives you? No! Why should he ever,_ ever _forgive you? Yo_ _u'll never..._ Dave would've listened to that voice, not so long ago, embraced it. Instead, and even then only after some difficulty, he imagined himself taking the neck of the figure screeching those words, and punching it in the face. To the outside world, to Kurt, all Dave did was say "Sure. I'd love to." He couldn't help but notice the pleased surprise flash across Kurt's face; now _that_ , he told himself, was progress.

Back in the now, Mercedes visibly relaxed as Kurt's mutterings from earlier turned over in Dave's mind. Finally, after a deep breath, he spoke again. "Hey, I got an idea." Kurt and Mercedes turned towards him, a little startled; it was the most he'd spoken for almost twenty minutes.

Mercedes was a little chagrined to realize that _she_ had been the one talking for 99% of that time. _Is Rachel rubbing off on me?_ she wondered. The very idea was terrifying to contemplate. But Dave mercifully continued talking and she wrenched her attention back to him.

"Every little bit helps. Why don't I ask the other Warblers if they want to go to the concert? That's a bunch more tickets right there. Plus, we'll even get some ideas on how to beat you guys next year," Dave added with a small smirk.

"Really?" gaped Kurt. "You'd do that for us?"

"Hey, you're still officially a Warbler for another week and a half," Dave scolded lightheartedly. "Show some school loyalty here!"

Kurt gave a graceful shrug. "I'm fickle. So sue me." His face turned serious. "But really, Dave, are you sure...?"

"Why wouldn't he be?" Mercedes cut in eagerly, obviously not seeing Kurt's concern; she seemed more worried that Kurt's questions would make Dave change his mind. "Thanks, Dave."

"Hey, it's no big deal."

Kurt thought otherwise, but held his tongue until Mercedes had departed and the two were walking back to Dave's car in the parking lot. "You know," Kurt said quietly, "that if McKinley can't appear at Nationals, that Dalton, as the second place team, would go instead."

Dave looked at Kurt innocently. "Would they? I didn't know."

"Dave..."

"It's all right, Kurt. Do you really think Wes or David or any of the other guys would want to go to Nationals that way? Because of Coach Sylvester hiding your guys' money? Would you?"

Kurt shook his head. "No. No, I wouldn't. I just wanted to make sure that..."

"Hey, winning isn't everything, right?" Dave said with a small smile. "New Directions beat us fair and square. Now you, Kurt Hummel, get to go to the city of your dreams and compete with the best across the country. Think about that, and not about Dalton, okay? We'll be fine."

Kurt smiled back. "Okay."

The two got into Dave's car. It wasn't until both were buckled in, and Dave had backed out of the parking lot, that he spoke again. "Hey, speaking of Nationals, did you get any news about your eligibility?"

"Funny thing, that. I got a letter from the national committee. _Somehow_ , they changed their minds. I'll be allowed to perform with New Directions after all. They said it was because of my 'extraordinary circumstances'..."

"But it was actually because of an extraordinarily scary woman," Dave concluded. "Weird that she'd do that for you, but still try to scuttle your chances of making it there at all."

Kurt shrugged. "Who can fathom the mind of Sue Sylvester? My guess is that she's doing this just in case she does fail to break us."

Dave couldn't help but chuckle nervously. "You are so lucky she likes you. Or at least doesn't hate you."

"Yes, well... It's not always easy being this fabulous. I have to get _some_ breaks occasionally."

Dave chuckled again, this time without the nervousness. "Well, you do make it look easy."

"That's because I have a lot of practice being me." The conversation withered for the moment. Kurt watched the twilight-edged sky glow behind the trees and houses as they flashed by his window. Dave kept his eyes on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel perhaps a little harder than he should have. The road growled underneath the tires. "Dave?"

"Hmm?"

"If you don't mind me asking... How are you doing?"

It was such a general question, asked carelessly and perfunctorily every day in a thousand different situations. But this usage was specific, and Dave knew (again) exactly what Kurt was asking. "Doing... okay, I guess. Been talking with Dr. Macey a lot lately."

Kurt nodded. "Making progress is good."

"Yeah. It is."

"Do you have any plans? For...?"

"Yeah. I think I do."

"Want to talk about them?"

Dave sighed. "Not right now. Maybe once they're in motion. I just... I don't want to..."

 _Disappoint you._ Those were words that weren't hard to plug into that silence.

"I understand. Don't worry; I'm patient. I can wait."

Dave dared to take a glance at Kurt. _Please wait for me; I'll do whatever it takes,_ he begged with his eyebrows and his pursed lips and a twitch of his nose instead of words.

 _I can't wait forever,_ Kurt replied with his raised chin and his glittering eyes and his hand casually reaching up to brush a stray hair out of his face, _but I will as long as I can._

 _Thanks,_ Dave replied with a huffed breath and a turn of his face back towards the road.

The rest of the drive passed in silence; this time, it was real.

* * *

"...and this is the cafeteria," Kurt said, nodding towards the closed set of doors. "Second only to the science lab in producing noxious gasses and artificial life." He wrinkled his nose at some bad culinary memory. "Now that's one thing I'll definitely miss about Dalton: you guys get food that has not come out of a ten gallon drum."

Dave made a gagging sound, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. "God, thanks for that mental image! Now I'll be thinking of potted meat food product all night!"

"Just file it away for if you ever want to go on a diet."

"Oh, you calling me chubby now?"

"Not at all. I think you're stunningly fit." Kurt had meant to say it in the same joking tone Dave had used, but somehow it didn't come out that way. Both boys suddenly found the hallways endlessly fascinating. "Oh! There's the choir room!" Kurt had also not intended that note of wistful longing to creep in, but it had. _What the hell happened to my self control?_ he fumed in his mind.

"Hey..." Dave's heavy, warm hand fell on his shoulder. "You'll be back in that room in a few days. Don't worry."

Kurt closed his eyes and nodded. "Right. You're right." He continued down the hall, not noticing his pace increasing; Dave had to jog to keep up. "Where are the others, by the way?"

"They should be here soon. It took them a while to gather up everyone."

"I can't believe all the Warblers decided to attend." Kurt's heart swelled, though whether it was pride for his new school's friends or joy for his old, he couldn't tell.

"You kidding? They jumped at the chance." At Kurt's insistence, he hadn't been present when Dave asked the other Warblers to attend the Night of Neglect, both to not pressure anyone and to avoid disappointment if there were a lot of "no"s. The first thing Wes did when Kurt returned after the meeting was over was chastise him for not telling them about this "excellent scouting opportunity" earlier. "Oh, and David bought an extra ticket..."

"For what's-her-name... That girl he never talks about." Kurt suppressed a giggle.

"Yeah, her. Carrie or Candace or whatever."

"Yes, what _was_ her name?" By now both teenagers were laughing, much harder than the inside joke warranted. "M-Maybe we sh-should ask David what he's doing next Saturday!"

"P-Probably nothing! With no one named Callie!"

"C-Callie _who_?"

Both boys roared. Kurt sank from a standing position to sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, tears streaming down his face, while Dave doubled over on his feet, knees bent and arms clutching his aching stomach. Fortunately for them, no one was around to hear the roars of laughter that echoed through the halls. Eventually, the merriment died down. Kurt wiped his face dry as Dave gasped for breath, finally forcing his lungs to work at a regular rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.

"Whew." Kurt scrambled to his feet, straightening his collar as if nothing had happened.

Dave clapped Kurt on the back warmly. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." They continued down the hall. "What time is it?"

Dave glanced at his watch. "Six forty."

"Then it's almost time. We should..." Kurt cut himself off with a gasp. Dave looked up; Kurt had started to turn a corner, nearly running headlong into Blaine Anderson and Santana Lopez. The other couple was arm in arm, and just as startled to see them. "S-sorry about that."

"No harm done." Blaine coughed nervously as Santana's grip on his arm visibly tightened.

"So..." Kurt rocked backwards on his heels, a nervous act that Dave couldn't remember seeing him do before. "You're here to support your girlfriend?"

"You know it!" Santana beamed. "My Blaine, here to cheer me on... It just makes my night!"

"I'm sure it does," Kurt said politely.

"And what about you?" Santana glared at Dave. "You got a lot of nerve showing up after what you did to Kurt and Blaine."

Kurt groaned inwardly. "Santana, please. _I_ invited him, and I've forgiven him. And I'd appreciate you not piling guilt trips on my friends." He turned towards Dave to apologize, but saw, to his surprise, that Dave didn't seem upset. Sure, he looked at least somewhat contrite and ashamed, but nothing like the wellspring of self-loathing Kurt had been expecting.

"No, Santana's right about one thing: I do owe her an apology. What I did affected her too."

"Well." Santana nodded, looking a little befuddled; Kurt wondered if her expression was somehow echoed on his face.

"And I owe an apology to Blaine too. In fact..." Dave cleared his throat. "I'd like to have a word with him in private about that."

All three of the other teenagers stared at him in surprise. "Uh, how about _no_?" Santana snapped. "I know you have issues with my man, and if you think I'm gonna leave him alone and helpless with you, you got another thing coming!" She stepped forward, getting into Dave's face. "You think I can't take you? I got razor blades all up in here!" She gestured towards her hair. "You touch one curly hair on his head, and you'll be coughing up your _cojones_! Don't think I won't..."

"Santana!" Blaine's voice stopped everyone dead. "It's okay. I'll talk to him."

"What? You're not seriously..."

"San!" There was a familiarity to that hiss, one that made Kurt wonder. His wonderment deepened as he saw how much it affected Santana; the tension seemed to flow out of her body like a dam burst. "Really. It's fine."

"Okay," she sniffed, stunning Kurt yet again (as he thanked God that he didn't have a heart problem like his father, or he'd be dead four or five times over by now). "But if you get into any trouble..."

"I can handle myself. You go on ahead with Kurt. I'll catch up later." Blaine watched as Kurt and Santana walked away; the latter glanced reluctantly over her shoulder twice before they vanished around the corner.

Dave waited for a moment after they disappeared to turn to Blaine. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "I abused the trust you put in me."

"You didn't have much reason to trust me," Blaine replied quietly.

"But I betrayed the trust Kurt put in me too. I shouldn't have done either. I should've let him make his own choices." Dave rubbed one of his eyes. "I should've given you a chance."

"Why? Why would you ever do something that dumb?" Blaine asked in a hoarse whisper.

Dave didn't answer. Instead, he took a small piece of notepaper out of his pocket. "Here," he said, placing it gently in Blaine's hands.

"What's this?" Blaine opened the paper; it was a list of two URLs and two phone numbers.

"The first website is a YouTube channel for a series of videos called It Gets Better. It's a bunch of people - gay and straight, celebrities and normal people like us - talking about how life gets better, even if you are gay." Dave's words came in a bit of a rush; he paused, and when he continued, his speech was slower, more normal. "I don't expect you to go all rainbow-crazy, but it'll show you that there _is_ some kind of life outside of the closet.

"The second site's for an organization called The Trevor Project. It's counseling for gay kids. If you ever feel like you... wanna hurt yourself, or like you can't go on, please call 'em. They're at that first phone number."

"And the second?" Blaine couldn't help but notice the 216 area code.

Dave exhaled. "That's... my number. If you ever want to shoot the shit about whatever, or you just need someone to talk to... Call me whenever you want. I'll pick up, promise."

Blaine looked up sharply, his face drawn with shock. "I asked you before... I'm gonna ask you again. Why...?"

Dave hung his head, his hands jammed into his windbreaker's pockets. "I've been thinking... a lot lately. About a lot of things. And I've figured it out... Actually, I've figured quite a few things out. But to answer your question... It's because... I thought you were someone you're not. Someone I used to know a long time ago. I hated you for that..."

"I thought you hated me because I messed with your friend."

"Yeah, that was a big part of it, but... I think if you'd been almost anyone else, I would've tried harder, for you and for Kurt. But I didn't, because of my own issues. And you didn't deserve that, not for that reason. Plus, we're... kind of alike in a lot of ways."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"Well, we both made dumb mistakes and hurt people because we were scared. I know what that's like. And that's why I want to help you."

"But that's... I don't believe you. After what I did to Kurt..."

"I know what you did to Kurt. And even after all that, _his_ first instinct was to try to help you. But I was too self-absorbed and caught up in the past to even try to seriously support him. That helped drive him from this school, so my piss-poor attitude is ending right the fuck now." Dave looked up at Blaine; his eyes were hard and serious. "You had a lot to do with this too. I still might not even be trying this if it weren't for the Bully Whips thing. Kurt's willing to give you a chance, so... I am too."

"I could still be playing you both," Blaine said evenly. "This could all be some kind of long con."

"I thought of that, yeah. But hell, if I avoided everything that I could get hurt by, I'd never get any living done. That and I'm pretty sure I could take you."

Blaine laughed at Dave's confident smirk. "Yeah, you probably could. And you could tell everyone about me in a flash."

Dave shook his head. "No. I thought I wanted to do that once, but... I can't. Kurt was right about that too. Your closet... It's as closed as long as you want it to be, as far as I'm concerned. But like I said when we first met, you're not alone. You're really not."

"Yeah... I think I'm starting to get that." Blaine blinked back tears, pretending to reread the paper so as not to betray the slightest hint of moisture on his face. Dave let him.

"There is one condition," Dave said suddenly.

"And that is?"

"Don't tell Kurt about any of this yet."

"Why not?"

Dave sighed. "Because I don't want him to think that I'm doing this for him. This is for you, and for me. Plus, if he hears, he's gonna want to get involved too, and... I want to give this time to work. That way, if I screw up or you really are just a scheming bastard, I can cover up my embarrassment."

Blaine considered this for a moment. "So," he said with a widening grin. "The truth comes out. You really are in love with him, and you're hoping helping me leads to his pants."

"Y'know, maybe you wouldn't be in this position to begin with if you weren't such a sarcastic asshole." Dave's words were without a hint of rancor; in fact, he was on the edge of laughing.

Blaine smiled a genuine smile. "Yeah, maybe not."

"Seriously, though, that's what I meant. Once I've been doing this for a while... Then I'll tell him. But for now... I need some time to do this on my own, so he knows that this isn't all just for him."

"Okay, fine. I won't tell him." Blaine's smile grew, crinkling his eyes. "You realize, though, that this'll probably blow up into some kind of sitcom misunderstanding where he thinks we're sleeping together or some shit."

Dave guffawed. "God, I hope not. But even if it does, so what? I'm friend-zoned for the foreseeable future, and you're... well, you got your own problems to work out too. If he thought we were getting it on, he'd probably try to _encourage_ us!"

Blaine's face lit up in mirth. "Oh, shit, don't put that image in my head! Sorry, but you're not my type."

"Oh, yeah? What is your type?"

"I like 'em a lot thinner than you, that's for sure. I like guys with a little more style, y'know? Class. And..." He trailed off, his jaw dropping. He looked up at Dave, who was smiling warmly. "Did I just..."

"Yeah." Dave's voice was encouraging, almost proud.

"Did I just say...?"

"Yeah. You did." He clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "Welcome to the big ol' gay family, Blaine Anderson."

"Wow... God..." Blaine wiped his forehead, looking a little pale; he began to tremble. "I... I think that's the first time... the first time I've ever said..."

"Then I'm glad I was the one who got to hear it. Puts me one up on Kurt in something for once." Dave gently gripped Blaine's other shoulder; the other boy stopped shaking. "Hey, next time it'll be a little easier. And the time after that will be a little easier than that. You're on your way, dude."

"Yeah, well..." Blaine let out a shaky sigh. "I'm still not anywhere near ready to come out."

"Doesn't matter. One step at a time."

"I guess so." He coughed, worming his way out of Dave's grip. "The concert's gonna start soon. We should look for Kurt and Santana."

"Yeah, we should." There was a brief silence.

"So... are we friends now or something?"

"You kidding? Fuck, no." Dave deliberately paused. "At least... not yet."

Blaine nodded. "Good. Because I still think you're a short-tempered throwback with more issues than Time Magazine."

Dave grinned. "Yeah, well, I still think you're a manipulative troll with a Napoleon complex. But... maybe we're both a little more than that."

"Just a little." Blaine offered a fist-bump. Dave stared for a moment with an are-you-kidding look, then slowly, but enthusiastically, bumped. "Come on. They're probably wondering where the fuck we are."

In fact, they were not. Around the corner at the other end of the hall, Kurt had been trying for several minutes to pull Santana away from her eavesdropping position, but once Dave handed Blaine the paper, the efforts stopped. He began listening with wide eyes just as she was.

"Didn't see _that_ coming," Santana muttered. She turned to Kurt. "Oh, come on. Shut that mouth before you start drooling on my shoes."

"But..." Kurt finally stammered. "But I..."

"Seriously? Kurt fucking Hummel at a loss for words? God, I wish I could record this." There was a dull buzz. "Hold on." She plucked up her slim cell phone (out of... where? Kurt was still in too much shock to even notice) and opened it up. She stared at the screen. "Shit. I gotta go." Santana ran off, leaving Kurt staring at the now-empty hall.

"Dave...?" But no one answered.

* * *

Santana burst into the backstage area in a fashion Rachel would've envied as the height of drama, had she been paying attention. But she was not; everyone was gathered in the wings, peeking out of the edge of the curtain. "We got a problem!" Santana declared; only about half of those present turned their heads. "Sunshine and her posse isn't coming anymore! She said..."

"That doesn't matter," Mike said firmly.

"What? Are you mental, Chang? Without them, we're..."

"Fine. Just fine. Come on, see for yourself." Mike gestured, and Santana joined the group, looking out at the auditorium. She gasped.

Practically every single seat was filled, with standing room in the back quickly becoming crowded. People were chattering, laughing, rustling their programs as they read. Lauren and Ms. Holliday were doing a brisk business running up and down the aisles selling from trays of saltwater taffy. Santana recognized a group of blue blazers near the middle as the Dalton Academy Warblers, but the rest... Most were fellow McKinley students, but others were random adults and kids she didn't know. She noticed Mr. Ryerson, Becky Jackson, and Azimio Adams near the front (accompanied by an empty seat all the more significant for its being the sole one) and Coach Sylvester standing in the back near the doors, her arms crossed and her face stormy with rage as she regarded the crowd.

"H-how...? Wh-where did all these...?"

"Don't you recognize some of them?" Mike asked quietly.

Santana looked closer at some of the assembled audience. There, in the third row... That looked like that freshman from the AV Club she'd escorted two weeks ago. And that girl standing in the wings looked an awful like the sophomore Puck was bragging about "saving" from a group of Cheerios a few days earlier. There was a robotics nerd over there whose Twitter harassers were sniffed out by Artie in his first major triumph as a cyberbullying investigator. And there... Santana turned to Mike with wide eyes. He merely nodded and smiled.

"Bully Whips clients," he said. "Almost all of them came. They brought their friends and families. Some of them even bought tickets without anyone to give them to." Mike shook his head in wonder. "Mr. Schue was right. They _wanted_ to give back."

The aforementioned teacher hurried towards them, clapping his hands. "Two minutes to curtain, guys! Places!" As the Glee Clubbers scattered, Santana took one last look out at the packed house, her head filled with a dozen conflicting emotions. She almost didn't feel Brittany take hold of her and almost forcibly yank her into position.

* * *

The night went off nearly flawlessly. The Heckling Club made a brave attempt to jeer Tina during her number (though down a member; Jacob ben Israel had bolted as soon as he saw the crowd, muttering something about discretion, valor, and wanting to keep his skin intact), but they were quickly and loudly counter-heckled by the rest of the audience. Tina watched in awe, stifling her laughter, as various students gave each of the three hecklers withering reviews of their techniques, reputations, and possible parentages. Sandy Ryerson left in tears, Azimio and Becky in hazes of fury (although when she thought about it later, Becky realized that she had been heckled just as hard as the others - that though her condition was never even alluded to, she was treated absolutely no differently than Mr. Ryerson or Azimio: no kid gloves, no mercy. Becky gained an almost blinding smile lasted for the rest of the month).

The rest of the performance was a blur of cheers and applause. By the time Rachel officially brought the curtain down with her simple declaration that Mercedes had ended the program, the house was on its feet, the entire Glee Club drinking in their curtain call. In the audience, Kurt, his mind giddy and hands sore from clapping, turned to Dave. "This is..."

"A turning point?" Dave asked, his voice nearly drowned out by the tumult around them.

Kurt considered this, considered everything he'd heard this evening. "Yeah. A turning point." He didn't say anything further; at that moment, Dave put his fingers to his lips and let out an approving, ear-piercing whistle that temporarily deafened Kurt in his left ear. "Arrgh! Thanks, Dave!" Of course, Dave didn't hear him.

* * *

"... and they... we even got a surplus for next year!" The Night of Neglect was many days over, but Kurt was still babbling. "We get to go to New York, the Brainiacs are on their way to their finals, and we _still_ have money left over!" Kurt slammed shut the box he'd been packing in his excitement (as much as one can "slam" cardboard).

"Yes, Kurt, I know. You came to my room at midnight to get me out of bed and tell me, remember?" With a wry grin, he hefted a bulging suitcase and placed it near the door. "That everything?"

Kurt sighed and looked about the room; it seemed so much barer now, almost cold without all his personal touches. "Should be."

Dave cracked open the door, glancing out. "Your dad waiting?"

"He's not here yet. He will be soon, though, to help bring stuff down."

"I can get whatever he can't. I know you don't want him to overexert himself too much."

"Thanks." The silence that followed was almost physically heavy. "So."

"So." Dave raised an expectant eyebrow.

"I... well, I'm at a bit of a loss for words here."

Dave smiled. "So am I. So I guess I'll just take the advice of a good friend and sing what I feel." He threw open the door. The Warblers stood in formation on the other side as Dave's voice rose in song, their own harmonies joining him.

_How do I say goodbye to what we had..._

Kurt gasped, his hand flying to his mouth.

_The good times that made us laugh...  
Outweigh the bad..._

This song wasn't quite in Dave's comfortable key, but he was acquitting himself more than adequately. Kurt's eyes glistened as Dave backed out the doorway to join the front line of Warblers, his fists pumping in the air in the "soulful singer" pose Kurt knew he'd mocked many times in Dave's presence. Maybe he'd have to stop; it actually looked _good_ on some people.

_I thought we'd get to see forever..._   
_But forever's gone away..._

The Warblers' arms all rose at once in a gesture - one that Kurt didn't recognize, but with a feeling he did: gratitude, happiness, and well-wishes, but with tinges of sadness and regret.

_It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday..._

By the time they finished the entire song, with Dave singing the last set of notes pitch-perfect, Kurt was weeping openly. Dave stepped forward and pulled his friend into a tight, warm hug, which Kurt desperately, graspingly returned.

"Y-you know that was a break-up song, don't you?" Kurt finally managed to gasp out, not relaxing his grip in the slightest.

"You are breaking up - with Dalton," Dave muttered into Kurt's shoulder. "It was appropriate enough. But not for me. I'm never saying goodbye to you."

"You'd better not. That's why they invented text messaging." Kurt couldn't see the rest of the Warblers, couldn't (yet) tell them how much they meant to him. But for now, he couldn't bring himself to care. For that moment, the world was just him, just Dave, just that embrace.

* * *

The choir room was abuzz. "Where is he?" Rachel demanded.

"Calm down!" Finn sighed. "He said he was coming right here as soon as he and Burt get into Lima."

"You said that twenty minutes ago!"

"I know! Do you want me to call..."

The doors flew open. Everyone looked up at once. Kurt Hummel, divested of the Dalton blazer and now resplendent in a special mix of his own hand-picked clothes, strode in. Mr. Schuester smiled. Finn rose, Mercedes' face lit up with joy, Brittany started applauding. With everyone staring, with tears rising in his eyes again, Kurt could only think of one thing to say.

"Hi. I'm back."


	21. Born This Way: The New Normal

Kurt had to admit that he was at least… comfortable with being the center of attention. Of course, that was a good thing when one was stunningly gay in a small Midwest town; if you were going to get the attention anyway, you might as well enjoy it. Then, of course, there were the ambitions of performing; having a healthy ego was practically a _requirement_ for that.

Still, as the "discussion," which was at least partly about him, raged in the choir room, Kurt couldn't help but wish that he could pull a Michelle Pfeiffer and just… disappear.

"Since when are _you_ making executive decisions about the Bully Whips, Abrams?" Santana demanded.

"Don't be so territorial," Artie replied with annoying calm.

"What is there to be territorial about? You knew from the beginning that _I'm_ a founder. _I_ get to make the major decisions."

"That was when we figured you'd get bored and wander off after a month," Quinn said coldly. "But the Bully Whips is bigger than you now. It's bigger than all of us."

"Who asked you, Baby Mama?" Santana snapped. "As far as I can tell, nothing's changed. I'm still the founder…"

" _One_ of the founders. And I still control all communications," Artie interrupted. "I think that should give me _some_ say, don't you?"

Santana snorted. "What the fuck have you done lately? Most of your dispatches have been recordings for months!"

"Hey, I have classes too, you know. And the script I'm using didn't exactly write itself. I've worked hard for the Bully Whips, and I think it's pretty clear that I'm a key player now. A position that _you_ put me in, Santana. I don't care why you did it, but you did, and I'm pulling what rank I have." With that, Artie turned to Kurt in just the way that Kurt had been praying to Yahweh and Odin and Bob that he wouldn't. "Your designation is Alpha One," Artie announced to all and sundry. "You are now our top escort priority. If your needs conflict with those of preexisting clients, I'll get permission to pull extra resources from classes."

Kurt tugged at his collar; why did it seem so warm all of a sudden? "Uh, you really don't have to..."

"We want to." Most of the rest of the room seemed to nod along with Artie.

"I'm flattered, but I'm not more important than your other clients..."

"You are," Sam said firmly. Again, the rest of the room didn't disagree.

The next question was out of his mouth before Kurt could even consider stopping it. "What about Blaine?"

The rest of the Glee Club exchanged looks of horror; obviously the question hadn't even occurred to them. "Well..." Artie began, "I can arrange the schedules so he's covering the opposite end of the school when you..."

"No!" Kurt burst out a little louder than he'd intended. Conscious of the stares he was getting, he stumbled on, making it even worse. "I mean, you don't need to... I know how hard it is to organize everyone... I don't mind if he has to escort me..."

"You don't?" asked Finn in a bewildered tone. Once more, the mood of those in the room seemed largely unified.

"I... I don't." Kurt's heart was starting to slow now; he found himself actually starting to think rationally. "Look, I came back because I trusted him when he said he'd changed. I have to follow through on that. If I avoid him now, I'll be declaring to everyone that I'm still afraid of him. He's one of your founders; what would that do to your reputation and your ability to protect your clients? Besides, I don't want to give him an opportunity or excuse to backslide." To Kurt's relief, some of the confusion in the room seemed to abate. _Looks like they're buying it,_ he thought. Of course, the actual honest _truth_ of why he was so insistent... even he wasn't 100% sure about it. He definitely didn't _want_ to say a big part of it was to see what sort of effect Dave would have on him, but... Well, his grandmother always used to say "the truth will out."

"Okay..." Artie finally said reluctantly. "If you're sure..."

"Positive. I promise, if I have the slightest problem, you all will be the first to know."

Artie grinned and nodded. "Fair enough. So if there are no objections..."

"Objection _right here_ ," Santana snarled, waving her hands. "Not to protecting White RuPaul here, but to this little coup you're running..."

"Santana, stop being selfish." The addressed girl froze completely. Brittany got up from her seat and stood behind Artie, resting her hands on her boyfriend's shoulders, an act that in Santana's mind was pretty much equivalent to French kissing him while groping his crotch in front of a PTA meeting. "I thought you'd be happy we're protecting Kurt. Why are you being like this?"

Santana turned deathly pale. "I... I..." Her nerves jumped, her limbs twitched. She might have bolted from the choir room had Mr. Schuester not chosen that moment to enter and get their dance rehearsal for Nationals underway. As the group got into position, Santana did her best not to cast any glares in Artie's direction. Her stomach sank as she realized just how much worse she'd made things for herself. And now she had an entire late afternoon to brood about it while trying to learn moves she currently couldn't care less about. _Something interesting had better happen during this rehearsal,_ she thought, _or I'm going to go out of my fucking mind._

As it turned out, she didn't need to worry.

* * *

Dave stepped into the mall, the rush of cool air greeting him. Kurt had said that he wanted them to meet for a little fashion test at some of the stores, but there was something about the way he looked when he made the invitation that made Dave wonder. The building was full of shoppers, the murmur of a thousand blended conversations turning individually comprehensible words into a porridge of nonsense. As Dave walked by various individuals and groups, he could make out intelligible talk:

"Do you think I can fit in this? Maybe I should've thought of that before I bought it..."

"No, you _cannot_ open it now. You wait until we get home or I'll take it away until..."

"Shit! Where the hell is my phone? I gotta check the text to make sure we're in place when..."

"I need a Pepsi. Can we swing by the food court?"

Dave couldn't help but think about the lives he was briefly nudging against before separating forever. Who knew what sort of interesting stories he was privy to for those brief moments? It was weird, he supposed, to be thinking about such a thing; perhaps it was because he knew what _they_ were missing, and probably never noticing they were missing it, by not knowing what was going on in his life. Not that it was significant to them, or any more interesting than a million other people's lives, but it certainly had some twists and turns that Dave felt confident in judging as just a _bit_ unusual.

Check that... As Dr. Macey pointed out to him many times, the things he was dealing with were, at its core, shit that people everywhere dealt with every day: fear, loneliness, guilt. Hell, hadn't he just recently pointed out to Anderson (it wasn't "Blaine" for him; they were still much too far apart for _that_ \- he tried not to think about Kurt's rather free use of that name) how much they were alike, in a sense? Hadn't he told Anderson that he wasn't alone? By necessity, that meant that he, Dave, wasn't either. Yeah, he knew it intellectually, when he thought about Wes and David and most especially Kurt, but did he really feel it, in his heart? That was a tougher question. And one he was determined to answer, for his sake if not Kurt's.

The crowd grew thicker as he approached the central atrium. Dave started scanning the shoppers looking for Kurt, nearly bumping into a woman and her child walking rapidly by, the adult's bag-laden arms barely holding onto the little girl's hand. "Sorry!" he managed to get out before they disappeared around the corner. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he should call Kurt to find out where he was, when he saw Puck walking by. Dave was opening his mouth to greet him when Puck hit a button on a set of music speaker/players standing rather incongruously by the escalators. A repetitive techno-like tune he didn't recognize began blasting through the mall.

Before Dave's mind could process this rather strange event, the theater of the absurd got even more so, as a double-line of young people rode the down escalator towards him, dancing along with the music. Right in the middle were Kurt and Rachel Berry; the latter was laughing in delighted shock. In moments, almost from the moment the group reached the bottom of the escalator, the two were surrounded by even more people peeling off from the crowd. Kurt ferried Rachel to the center of the atrium, where she was embraced by a double ring of dancers, amongst whom were _way_ too many familiar faces to be any kind of coincidence.

Dave watched and listened, torn between utter confusion and laughter. What the fuck did Barbra Streisand have to do with any of this?

The song all too quickly ended with just Rachel and her fellow Glee Clubbers in the middle of the atrium. She hugged Kurt as the watching crowd burst into applause. As the two broke up their embrace, Kurt's eyes met Dave's; the former's eyes and face lit up in happiness in a way that never failed to tie Dave's stomach into all sorts of knots a dozen Boy Scouts could never untie. "Dave!" Kurt waved him over even as the audience and non-McKinley dancers dispersed. Rachel was now hugging Puck as their fellows offered more support and words of encouragement Dave couldn't hear over the surrounding tumult.

"Kurt!" Dave laughed. "Wh-what the fuck..."

"The power of the Internet. Can you believe we had all these strangers choreographed with just one text message? A challenge worthy of Edith Head when she was designing for _A Place in the Sun_."

"But what... what was...?"

"It's a long story. One I can tell you over lunch. Short version: Rachel needed a little support. Puck came to me, we arranged a flash mob. We wowed an entire mall. Curtain."

"I thought something was up." Dave's eyes twinkled. "And you didn't invite me to join in? I would've rocked that dance. Hell, I would've had all the lyrics to that song memorized before I even got here!"

There it was again: that flash of surprise coming over Kurt's face, as if his expectations were being defied. But that look seemed to becoming shorter and shorter each time, as if his expectations were beginning to shift. He laughed. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to see the look on your face when you walked into the middle of it. And my God, was it worth it! I made sure that Mercedes took pictures; you should see them on Facebook repeatedly in a few hours..."

Dave looked around with mock wildness. "Oh, so that's why she wasn't a part of it. What was her address again? I just want to... talk to her. Yeah, talk."

Kurt slapped his shoulder. "Quiet, you. Enjoy your public humiliation." He glanced over at the group of Glee Clubbers. "Can you excuse me for just a moment? Then you can buy me lunch while I fill you in. We can start the shopping afterward."

"No problem." Dave watched as Kurt left to approach his friends. He shook his head, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, trying to keep Kurt away from this, when it was so plain where he belonged. The old shame came over him again, which he quickly began pushing back on. He'd tried keeping Kurt at Dalton, but he'd failed, thank God, and that was in the past. It was done; nothing could change what happened, despite the time travel stories that Dave loved so much. The only thing that mattered now was how he dealt with it in the present, and how he'd keep himself from doing something so dumb in the future. Not to mention a whole lot of other things about the future that Dave found himself more and more determined each day to bring about.

On the other hand, Dave thought with a smile, Dalton might've kept Kurt a little saner. I mean, was it _normal_ for a bunch of high school kids to start a flash mob set to music in the middle of a mall for a friend, for whatever reason? Then again, was it normal for an elite prep school to have a Glee Club that somehow managed to worm its way out of direct faculty supervision and shove canaries into its new members' hands? That was a comparison Dave wasn't entirely sure he'd win.

He returned his attention to Kurt's group. Among them was Santana Lopez; Dave couldn't help but wonder just how much she knew about her boyfriend. Kurt had told him what Anderson had said in their principal's office; that revelation sent his memory rocketing back to Sectionals, and that one odd conversation that was slowly becoming a little more comprehensible. Right now, however, she didn't seem like the confident, aggressive girl he'd met backstage. She was certainly putting up a good show, but Dave himself knew a thing or two about being emotionally guarded, and there was _something_ there, something that was taking away a bit of the gleam in her eye and a bit of the smile on her lips.

Dave hoped that she had _someone_ to help her, though given what he knew about the people in her life, he had no idea who that someone could possibly be...

* * *

"I need to punch something!"

"Santana?" Blaine's head snapped up from his book as she stormed into his bedroom without so much as a knock. He opened his mouth to ask her how she got into his house without him knowing, but a single look at her face killed the desire.

"Did I stutter, Brillo Head? I said, I literally need to punch something! Now, if you're volunteering..."

"Wait!" Blaine leaped to his feet. "I've got a better alternative!"

Both were standing in the "better alternative" in less than three minutes.

"A gym." Santana's voice was flat. "You have a _gym_ in your fucking _house_."

Blaine shrugged. "My dad likes to keep in shape. Says it helps him with all those long plane trips and fancy meals he eats. Boo hoo, huh?" He showed his girlfriend a tall punching bag, briefly striking a sarcastic game show model-like pose. "Try this." Blaine plucked a pair of bag gloves from a nearby cabinet and handed it to Santana. "I think these should be around your size."

Santana stared at the bag in askance even as she pulled the gloves on. "You know, when I said I literally needed to punch something, I wasn't really being literal..."

"Go ahead. It'll make you feel better. I do it all the time; it really is a huge stress reliever. I think I would've gone batshit insane years ago if it weren't for this." A stillness between the two followed; Blaine almost began to wonder if time itself was catching its breath. "Try imagining someone's face on the bag, preferably not mine. Does that help?"

A wicked grin came over Santana's face. "Oh, yeah." She exploded with a sudden, vicious jab. Her gloved fist impacted with the muted bang of leather on leather, sending the bag jerking back, as if startled at her strength. Before it could recover, she let out another swing, forcing the bag to snap back even further.

Santana's strikes came faster and faster. Blaine watched with a critical eye; her punches were completely untrained, of course, with no sense or care for form, but that was natural, all things considered. Sweat began to trickle down Santana's face as she struck out with punch after punch, her teeth clenched; Blaine could imagine her knuckles as hard and white under the black gloves.

With every punch she threw, the speed of the next one increased, until, before Blaine knew it, Santana was covering the bag in a fusillade of blows. A scream of frustration and rage ripped out of her throat, startling her wide-eyed boyfriend into literally jumping back. Finally, she took one last blow, her right arm twisting far back and slamming into the punching bag with an impact that Blaine thought almost tore it from its moorings. For a long minute, Santana stood there, panting, her arms hanging like limp noodles at her sides. Her hair was mussed, the chest of her shirt dark with moisture, sweat running in rivulets like tears. Finally, she turned to Blaine with a weak smile.

"Thanks. I needed that."

"No shit," Blaine breathed. "I'm going to take a wild leap here and guess it had something to do with Brittany and/or Abrams?"

Santana could only respond with a nod; she didn't even bother to school her face into her usual disgusted sneer. It was as though she was simply too drained to do anything but stand, and even that was an obvious effort. Blaine gently led her to one of the weightlifting benches; she dropped gratefully into a seated position at once. "She actually took his side," she whispered.

Blaine paused; he felt as though he was taking his first step onto a minefield with nothing but a stick. An old stick that was stepped on by the OSU marching band and used to clean up dog poop. "What did you think she'd do?"

"I... I don't know. Why doesn't she love me?"

"Who says she doesn't?"

Santana turned on him with a glare; Blaine had to resist the urge to get up and run at that very moment. "If she did, she wouldn't be with _him_." Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and her face; her tears and her sweat had run together - it was impossible to tell which was which anymore. "I told her how I felt. And she still chose him. Why?"

"I don't know." Not only was it the safe response, it was the honest one. Blaine didn't quite know what to make of Brittany Pierce. She was an odd mix of book dumb and people smart, naive and ruthless, bubbly-sweet and a bitch on the same level as Quinn and Santana herself. He wasn't sure if she really was all those things all at once, or if her personality changed depending on who she was with. Either way, he himself had all sorts of opinions about loving someone like that, ones he wasn't about to share with Santana any time soon.

The thought startled him a little. _I care. Fuck. Now I'm_ really _screwed_.

"I... What do we do now?" Santana asked despairingly.

Blaine reached around her shoulder, hugging her close. "What we do," he replied, "is get you elected Prom Queen. No sense giving up now, is there? Not when we've come all this way. And if we end up doing a little good along the way, so be it. You saw that audience at your concert, didn't you?"

"Yeah..." The reminder brought up all sorts of thoughts and feelings that Santana still wasn't sure she was equipped to deal with. Seeing all those people, all those grateful Bully Whips clients... Seeing them and knowing that _she did that_... It was the best thing she'd ever done in her life, maybe the best thing she'd _ever_ do, and she started it to get a girl. She felt vaguely guilty about that, which was still more than she would've felt just a few months ago. _Warm and fuzzy feelings. Fuck. Now I'm_ really _screwed_ _._ She straightened her shoulders, sighing as she rose form the bench. "You're right. We have work to do."

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine snapped off a perfectly military salute.

"Hey, I like that. Keep that up. Maybe I'll make it policy for the others do it when we pass by in the halls." She started for the door, but stopped halfway there. Santana turned. "Blaine..."

"Yeah?"

Her face twitched, her lips pursed. "Nothing." She turned away.

Blaine nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "You're welcome."

Santana froze, but she quickly regained her composure and continued walking. "We still got a lot to do, Blaine. You'd better be able to keep up."

"Right behind you," he replied.

And he was.

* * *

Kurt was quite pleased at himself, and it wasn't just because of his triumphant return to McKinley. He was fully confident that he now had control back - control of himself and his own life, and damn if it didn't feel good.

It'd started on the Night of Neglect. He'd even amazed himself at how normally he treated and interacted with Dave after the two reunited, despite his mind churning, replaying _that conversation_ in what seemed to be an infinite loop. Kurt was certain, _certain_ , that Dave didn't suspect a thing, even now. _Damn, Hummel, you are_ good _!_ _If they gave an Oscar for Best Illusion of Normalcy, you'd win for sure!_ After that, it just got easier to pretend, to be Kurt the unsuspecting friend, and not Kurt the Devastatingly Hopeful and Yet Hopelessly Confused.

Like now, for instance. It was a warm Saturday afternoon, and Dave was sitting on the living room couch (no "up in Kurt's room" for Dave, not since the aftermath of the RBHPTWE) finishing the last of Kurt's DVR'ed Style Channel shows for the week. Kurt remained impressed at how interested Dave presented himself as being (though he had a feeling that Dave's actual, genuine interest had been building with each viewing session, and that Dave himself may not have even realized this yet). But he was even more impressed at the way he didn't let on about the information that was currently on his computer screen upstairs, albeit hidden by the rather convenient Beyonce screen saver.

Ever since that little revelation before the Night of Neglect, Kurt had been keeping a close eye on the goings-on at Dalton. He felt like a bit of a creeper at first... No, that was inaccurate. He _still_ felt like a bit of a creeper. However, if Dave was going to do anything else to fulfill his promise of change, Dalton was the next logical step after Blaine. Sure enough, in the bowels of the Dalton Academy website, he came across a page that, according to the time stamp information, had been created just a couple of weeks previous.

It was for the Dalton Academy Gay-Straight Alliance, formed in partnership with its sister organization at Crawford Country Day, "a true alliance of both schools and students of all sexualities." The listing of members included practically every, if not every, Warbler (Dave included, although his name was given no more emphasis or prominence than anyone else's), and an impressive array of other, unfamiliar names. He supposed that even in a place as apparently tolerant as Dalton, having a GSA couldn't hurt.

Now, Kurt was as certain as Jesse St. James was a douche that there hadn't been a GSA at Dalton while he was there. The page said nothing about when or how the GSA was formed, so a little test was in order, one that Kurt was unreasonably proud of. He caught David Thompson one evening on Facebook Chat and started a casual conversation. Kurt's own discussion with Blaine gave him a perfect excuse to bring up the GSA.

 **So I heard that Dalton has one too,** Kurt had typed.

 **Yes** , David had replied, though taking a lot longer than expected to write one three letter word.

Grinning evilly (why on Earth was he enjoying this so much? He would've been disturbed had he been not having so much fun), Kurt proceeded to the next, perfectly natural question. **I don't remember there being one when I was there. It's a recent development, I assume?** **Who founded it?  
**

This time, the wait was even longer. It took almost two minutes before the next words appeared in Kurt's chat window. **I forget. Some new student, I think.** Then, much too quickly to be casual: **So how're you settling in back at McKinley?**

And there it was. All the confirmation Kurt could possibly have asked for. Kurt mentally patted himself on the back for zeroing in on David as the one most likely to panic under direct questioning: loyal enough to his friends to take any promises made to them seriously, and probably unused to lying to people he liked.

Kurt was satisfied. He now _knew_ beyond a reasonable doubt that a single particular person had been responsible for the interscholastic GSA, and what that single person had made his fellow students promise. After all, had not Kurt himself heard said person extract the same promise from someone else?

Kurt stole a look at Dave, who was still watching the TV. He wasn't 100% sure how Dave had concluded that this was what he had to do, but he could guess; Dave had once mentioned that his therapist said that he "lived in his own head" too much at times, which led to things like obsessing about the past and beating one's self up for no good reason. Besides, Kurt thought, how could doing something like this not improve one's self-esteem? In just his few days back at McKinley, Kurt himself had seen what founding the Bully Whips had done to Santana (although he was unsure if even she saw it yet), and _her_ self-worth was hardly what one would call "damaged." And then there was the effect it seemed to have on Blaine Anderson...

 _Dave's trying. In a hundred little ways - and maybe a few big ones - he's trying. And it's... for me._ Had anyone ever done something of that magnitude for him? His parents, who gave him life. The Glee Club, mostly as a collective unit. That was about all Kurt could come up with at the moment.

He almost had to slap himself to remember: there were still lingering issues, and it was too soon. Dave needed a little space to grow into what he was becoming, and Kurt was beginning to amply demonstrate just why Dave must have begged his friends not to let him into the loop. But really, who could blame him for being a little... fine, obsessed? Dave was actively fighting demons that had lived and thrived in his mind for who knows how long, and he's...

Talking. Startled, Kurt finally saw that the DVR had stopped its replay. _Oh_. _I should probably start paying attention now._

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

Dave smiled a little, but repeated, "I said, you told me you were going to tell me about your latest Glee Club assignment...?"

"Oh! Right!" Kurt leaped to his feet, excited; he began describing the drama that had led up to Mr. Schue arranging the Lady Gaga performance. Dave sat on the couch, as if enraptured more by the speaker than by the words; Kurt tried very hard not to notice this. "...and we're wearing shirts that describe our flaws. So we can own them."

Dave nodded. "What's yours going to be?"

"I've already thought of it." He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it to his chest; two words in black Sharpie were written on it. "Ta da!"

There was a moment of silence. Kurt knew for a fact exactly what Dave was going to say next. This time, it wasn't really a surprise; Kurt had realized it himself not long ago, and knew he would've had the same question if their situations had been reversed. (Reversed... Dave Karofsky, the sensitive bullied gay kid, and Kurt Hummel, his private school friend with a painful past... It was a funny thing to think about.)

Sure enough, the words Kurt knew were coming emerged from Dave's lips, somewhat hesitant. "But Kurt... that's not a flaw."

"I know. It's just that... what else could I put? It is sort of the elephant in the room. Besides, I can choose to interpret the purpose of the shirt differently. I could have also approached it as something that I had to acknowledge about myself, or something I or others think is a flaw, but really isn't. That's where I'm going with this; I'm embracing something that the _rest of the world_ perceives as a flaw."

Dave nodded slowly. "I think I see that," he said thoughtfully.

Kurt swallowed; was this really the time to ask this? Would it really be so bad if he never asked? Did he actually _have_ to? "You... really don't mind Blaine escorting me as part of the Bully Whips?" _Huh? When did I decide to actually say that? Bad brain! Bad!_

Dave seemed startled at the sudden question, but soon nodded. "I don't. He... kinda needs someone like you. To keep him in line, I mean." He grinned. "And, well... If you trust him, then what choice do I have?"

Kurt halfway expected him to continue. _"And I put myself in contact with him, someone I've hated for months, for your sake, so I know, like you do, that he may not be such a bad guy after all, if he could only overcome his own fear."_ But, of course, Dave didn't. So Kurt merely said, "Thanks. It... means a lot to me." _That you're beginning to trust me to make my own decisions. That you're doing so much without expecting, or even hoping for, anything from me..._

"No problem." He accompanied the casual statement with an equally casual shrug. Kurt's admiration was aroused once more, this time for Dave. _He's just as good as I am at this whol_ _e deception thing. It's amazing to watch when it isn't directed at hiding something I actually need to know from me..._

Funny how a single thought can splash cold water on one's soul. He hadn't intended to think such a thing, but he did. There it was: a single reminder of why both he and Dave needed to take the time. _Stupid reality,_ he thought.

But then again: why not? Why couldn't he be patient? Dave was starting a laborious process of becoming the man he was truly meant to be; who was Kurt to stand in his way or try to hurry it along for his own selfish reasons? And didn't he now have the best of both worlds: the ability to sort out his own thoughts and feelings while still getting to watch Dave grow?

Kurt nodded to himself. His confidence restored, he sat back down on the couch. A good few feet separated the two, partly to keep a sense of personal space and partly to guard against the inevitable firestorm should his father happen to see them. But somehow, Kurt sensed that space would start getting narrower and narrower over time. "Well, you watched what I wanted you to watch, so it's your turn to decide on the movie this week."

Dave got a grin that chilled Kurt to the bone. "Excellent." He grabbed the remote and started flipping through the on demand menus. "There's this Japanese horror flick I read about online that I've been dying to see..."

"Am I going to need a blindfold and earmuffs?"

Dave shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "I think you've got the stomach for it."

"I can't wait," Kurt said wryly.

* * *

Blaine Anderson strolled out of the locker room, his Bully Whips suit neatly folded in his duffel bag. It had been another successful day, with few problems that needed to be dealt with - at least with bullies (he still hadn't been assigned to an escort with Kurt, though he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at that). When it came to his own girlfriend, well, that was another thing entirely.

The prom campaign season was in full swing. As he walked down the hall, mostly empty with the end of the school day over an hour gone, he examined the posters he passed by. There was one for Quinn and Hudson, right next to one of Lauren Zizes' "Lucy Caboosey" posters (he hadn't been surprised Lauren made that move, considering the two girls and their history, nor was he surprised when it seemed to backfire; he seriously doubted he and Quinn were the only people who reinvented themselves to become someone more popular). Speaking of Zizes, there was a poster for her and Puck, and right there was one for (surprise, surprise) Santana Lopez and Blaine Anderson. Both were photographed in their Bully Whips suits ( _Subtle, Lopez_ , he thought), standing back to back as they looked coolly at the camera. They cut a fine figure, of course; he expected nothing less. The polls provided by Jacob ben Israel, however, showed a much tighter race than Santana liked, which meant all sorts of yelling, followed by all sorts of orders, followed by all sorts of headaches for Roger Anderson's little boy.

Blaine sighed, rubbing his eyes as his duffel bag shifted on his shoulder. All he wanted to do was go home, maybe grab a nap, and just forget about...

"Hey."

Blaine almost fell over in surprise. _Where the fuck did he come from?_ "Uh... hey, Chris." A pause. "What the fuck are you still doing here?"

Strando shrugged. "Was working out. Wanna make sure I'm still good enough for Beiste next year."

"Uh huh." He winced at all the doubt in those two short words; then again, when it came to his best friend Chris Strando, he'd long since lost a lot of the filter that he usually kept around most people. "So... what's up?"

Strando crossed his arms, looking at once comical and dead serious. "That's what I wanted to ask you."

"What do you mean?"

"Look, man, the other guys are talking." Blaine's gut turned to ice; he could already _hear_ what they were probably saying. "Ever since this whole Bully Whips thing... I know Lopez is hot, and I know she puts out - that's what I've been telling the others. But now Hummel is back, and... Jesus, Blaine, what the fuck is going on? This is nothing like you..."

"Oh, yeah? And you know what I'm 'like,' huh?"

"Christ, man, of course I do. Me and the rest of the team have been your friends for fucking years now!"

 _And yet you still don't really know me... Then again, whose fault is that?_ At the same time, another part of him wondered: apart from Chris, who else on that goddamn football team who wasn't in the Glee Club would he actually consider friends? All of them, just a few months ago. But now? _Whoever said "the truth hurts" sure knew what he was fucking talking about._ "Right. And if you want to keep it that way, you'll stop asking me so many fucking stupid questions." Blaine winced inwardly; had he really just pulled the "I won't be your friend anymore" thing? What was he, eight?

His chagrin and guilt deepened at the hurt look that came over Strando's face. "Hey, man, I'm just asking. I mean, it's not just the Bully Whips. You... you've really changed a lot lately. The others have noticed too. And... I dunno... it's kind of freaking me out, y'know? When was the last time you hung out with anyone on the team? Do you even remember?"

"Of course I..." Blaine stopped, realization flooding over him, increasing the guilt. "I've been busy lately, Chris," he finished lamely.

"Too busy to answer my fucking texts and e-mails too." Strando began to glare. "If you think you're too good for us now that you got Lopez and your little Bully Whips, after we stuck our necks out for you dealing with the Glee Club, at least say so to our faces..."

"No! It's not that!" Memories ran through Blaine's head unbidden: the trips to Six Flags that summer after sixth grade, catching fireflies in his back yard, that hilariously disastrous double date with Jessica and Heidi during their freshman year. "Shit, man, you know we're friends."

"Hard to remember lately, dude," was the blunt reply. Almost immediately, Strando's face softened; Blaine had to wonder what his own expression had been. "Seriously, what the hell's up? You don't even have to tell me what's wrong; just at least say so if there is, so I got _something_ to tell the guys the next time they ask me what's going on with you..."

Panic welled up in Blaine's chest. "Chris, I... gotta go. I'll text you later, I promise." He began walking rapidly down the hall.

"Blaine?"

"I'll talk to you later, I swear! I really gotta go!" The next thing he remembered, he was in his car. He was sniffling.

He hadn't been crying, though. Definitely not.

* * *

Dave wandered down the halls of McKinley, his memory of the route to the auditorium slowly returning. It was Kurt's first performance back with New Directions, so there was _no_ way he was going to miss it, even with the land speed records he probably broke to make it in time.

As he entered, the auditorium was already half-full with chatting students. Not nearly as many as the Night of Neglect concert, of course, but still a healthy audience. Dave quietly slipped into an aisle seat just as the curtain rose.

Dave watched the performance in a bit of a daze. His eyes couldn't help follow Kurt as he strutted about the stage, LIKES BOYS emblazoned proudly on his chest. It was as though his ears were filtering out all the music; all he could hear was his heart pounding. The next thing he knew, the audience was applauding. Feeling foolish, Dave quickly joined in.

As people began filing out of the auditorium, Dave stepped into the stage left aisle, pressing his body against the wall to let others pass. He idly looked about; by sheer chance, he spotted Blaine and Santana. _Huh, that's right; she_ wasn't _performing. Wonder why...?_ She had a red jacket pulled tightly over her body, while Blaine had his arms crossed, his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. Both were staring at the now curtained stage, with strange expressions on their faces that Dave didn't dare speculate about. Finally, silently, the two got up and left out the back doors.

"Hey." Dave jumped; Kurt had teleported to his side, his face still shining with sweat. "Glad you could make it."

"Me too. You guys were great." _You were great_.

"Thanks. So you said you had a surprise for me...?"

"Well, kind of." Dave rubbed the back of his head, wondering for the thousandth time whether this was a good idea or not. He decided to commit himself before he chickened out. "I decided to get a shirt of my own."

"A shirt of your own? What do you...?" Kurt's face lit in comprehension. "Oh, really?" More than a little intrigue crept into his voice.

"Yeah. I was thinking about what you were saying about how maybe the shirts should maybe express something that I had to acknowledge about myself, or something I think is a flaw that really isn't, but I didn't mean it as an excuse or anything and I really hope it doesn't come off the wrong way, so..."

"Calm, Dave, calm." Kurt patted his friend's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm sure I'll take it in the spirit in which it was intended. Now show it to me before I kill you to relieve the suspense."

He nodded. "Okay." He loosened his Dalton tie and unbuttoned his white dress shirt as Kurt watched with an expression that was half-amused, half something else that Dave studiously ignored. Feeling foolishly like Superman, Dave pulled the open shirt apart, revealing the t-shirt underneath, and its message. Kurt stared. "Um... Kurt?"

Finally, the other boy nodded. "I think I see what you were getting at," he said softly.

"Yeah...?"

"And I like it." Kurt smiled gently. "Hell, maybe it should've been on _all_ our shirts. It would've fit nicely." He paused. "I'm glad you're really thinking about this, Dave. I really am."

Dave sighed in relief. "Thanks. I... I'm trying."

"I know you are." _God, do I know._ "Come on, let's get some coffee."

"Okay. But remember, it's your turn to buy this week." Dave began buttoning up his shirt.

"Stop right there, Karofsky." Dave froze as Kurt smirked. "I think you should be showing off that shirt a little while longer."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"I never kid about something like this. This performance was about owning our so-called 'flaws', and since you went to the effort to join us, you have to reveal yourself along with the rest of us. And since you weren't on stage..."

Dave sighed in an exaggeratedly put-out huff. "Fine, if you insist."

"I do."

Grinning, the two left the auditorium - two teenage boys with large messages trumpeting something of themselves for the world to see.

LIKES BOYS

ONLY HUMAN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I named this chapter long before I found out what Ryan Murphy's sitcom was going to be called. Go fig.


	22. Rumours: The Chain

_The chain started with Finn Hudson…_

"I'm going in!"

"Wait! I have to…"

"Fuck! Heavy at 3 o'clock!"

"I've got him! Just go!"

"Hey! The Pyro is…"

BLAM!

"Got the mother!"

"Shit!"

"Ha ha!"

"We got it!"

"Red rocks!"

"Great job, guys!"

"Fuck! Fucking Sniper's fucking gay!"

"Yeah, I am. So the fuck what?"

"Fucking fag! I should..."

Dave rolled his eyes. Like he hadn't heard, seen, and been part of worse than a few spews from some random Xbox Live player. He switched his headset feed back to his private chat with Finn.

"Good work, dude," Finn's voice said warmly.

"Thanks, you too." Dave wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. At the beginning of their video gaming together, Finn had felt obligated to apologize for every homophobic remark slung Dave's way. It was a little irritating, but understandable; Kurt was his stepbrother, after all, and Dave understood that Finn felt a need to redeem himself, if Kurt's stories about the way the two used to interact was any indication. If there was one thing Dave knew, it was wanting redemption.

It took a while, but Dave finally weaned Finn from his constant apologia. "It's okay," he'd said. "You're not responsible for every immature, small-minded asswipe who says something offensive over the Internet. Seriously, I can handle it." It seemed to get through, because that was the last time he'd had to make that speech.

"The Blues were pretty disorganized, though," Finn-in-the-present continued. "Made it easy to herd 'em into your sights."

"Ah, well, as awesome as I am, I won't take all the credit. Team effort, Finn, team effort."

"Yeah." He heard movement on the other end of the chat, followed by rustling and clomping. "You sound like you're doing good lately."

"Well, I'm a little out of practice, but I think I..."

"No, I mean in general. You used to put yourself down all the time, no matter what I said. You tried to make out like you were kidding, but I knew better. You don't do that anymore."

 _Not out loud_ , Dave thought, though even that was a sort of progress, not to mention becoming a little easier to manage every day. He shrugged, not remembering for a moment that Finn couldn't see him. "Yeah, well, that shit gets as tiresome as people apologizing all the time for douches they don't even know." A chuckle came from Finn's end; Dave smiled. "I've got some... stuff I'm working out."

"Hey, dude, I understand," Finn replied quietly. There was a deep huff, a sigh magnified by however close his mike was to his mouth. "Look, I'm not sure I should tell you this, but..."

"Well, if it's not good, don't tell me," Dave replied with a laugh.

"No, I'm being serious, dude. You're my friend, but Kurt's my brother... Maybe he doesn't even realize what he's doing, and..."

"Kurt?" Dave's heart pounded in his ears, his back straightening in his chair. "Is something wrong with Kurt?"

"What? No, he's fine... sorta. He's..." There was a brief pause. Then Finn's voice came through in almost a shout. "I think Kurt's cheating on you."

"Cheating on...? Finn, we're not dating. We're friends. You know, like you and me."

"Whatever you and Kurt got going, it is _not_ like you and me," Finn shot back with a smirk in his voice. "Seriously, Rachel and I..."

"Need to mind your own business," Dave cut in. "If Kurt wants to date someone, that's fine with me." He stopped for a moment, a little surprised at the unexpected amount of truth in the words. Dave found himself a little torn at how to react to this information. "Hell, maybe I should congratulate him," he continued. "He should..."

"It's Sam!" Finn burst out.

"Sam...? You mean Glee Club Sam?"

"Yeah. They've been meeting at a motel, and..."

Dave had to cover his mike so Finn didn't hear his laughter. He remembered being startled the first time he'd opened the door to the Dalton main hall to get the pizza and saw that familiar face, which immediately blushed in embarrassment and shame. They'd talked; Kurt's knowledge and involvement came up, which cleared up some rather puzzling behavior on his part, like that time Kurt had insisted on not only being the one to meet the delivery guy, but giving him a huge tip. Dave had tried to offer aid, even asking his father for possible job leads for Sam's parents, but nothing had come of it yet, and Sam had been at least mildly resistant to Dave's efforts. "I appreciate it, but we'll figure something out," he'd said, with a tired, defeated look that Dave had seen way too many times in the mirror.

His mirth _finally_ receding, Dave removed his hand from his mike. "Don't worry about it, Finn. Really."

"Yeah, but..."

"I know you like us both, but believe me: this isn't any of your concern. You don't need to worry about me or it. Trust me."

"O-okay," Finn said reluctantly. "But if he's not cheating on you, then what..."

"I told you, there's nothing between us for him to cheat on," Dave said firmly, all too conscious of how he was so nakedly avoiding Finn's real question. "Now are you gonna talk or are we going to kick more ass?"

"Kick more ass!" Finn squealed with almost childish glee. Dave smiled, turning back to his TV and gripping his controller tightly. At least, he thought, that nonsense was over and done with...

* * *

_It continued on to Rachel Berry..._

"... And he said it wasn't anything to worry about," Finn concluded.

Rachel cocked her head and tapped her chin in thought. "It's touching how much faith people have in Kurt."

Finn frowned at the thought. "Maybe... we should be having more faith in him ourselves?"

"Finn, we saw what we saw. Besides, perhaps David is telling the truth, and there really are no romantic inclinations between them. In that case, Kurt would see his assignations with Sam as harmless."

"I suppose, but... what about Quinn?"

Rachel's face darkened. "What about her?"

"She's part of the rumor too. Do you really think that she _and_ Kurt...?"

Finn was nearly thrown physically backwards by the screech of laughter that issued from that flawlessly trained throat in front of him. "Oh, Finn, your sense of humor is so charming!"

"Uh, thanks... I guess..." He wandered - or perhaps staggered - off, his finger digging in his ear in an attempt to relieve the ringing.

_And from Rachel, it linked to Santana..._

Rachel watched Finn disappear down the hall, her heart a whirl of emotion (that really could become a terrific song for Nationals). She turned, nearly crashing headlong into Santana. Rachel squeaked, jumping back; Santana had been in a nasty mood lately, even for her, ever since the Muckraker printed speculation about _that_ YouTube video. Brittany had calmly explained what she meant at the last Glee Club rehearsal (at Santana's insistence, to Mr. Schue's and Rachel's own annoyance), but Rachel had no illusions that it would end anything. With Coach Sylvester at the helm of the paper, and Becky Jackson and Azimio Adams just itching for revenge for the Night of Neglect, this whole mess was not going to end any time soon.

"Watch where you're going, Dinklage," Santana barked, bringing Rachel abruptly back to the present.

Even with the distinct feeling that her life was in imminent peril, Rachel couldn't bring herself to apologize. "Ah..." She mentally kicked herself for being at such a loss for words. Then again, she wasn't the only one; Blaine Anderson was torn, she could tell that. During Bully Whips meetings, she could see him practically trembling with the effort it took to restrain himself. Two warring instincts, battling it out against each other: to comfort his girlfriend, and the realization that in her mood, she would probably bite him in two if he tried. She had to admit it was rather sweet; she could remember a time not long ago when she would've sworn that the Philistine didn't have it in him. Well, she was woman enough to admit when she was wrong.

"Well, well. Nothing to say?" Santana sneered. "Maybe I should have fucking slander printed about me more often if it'll get you to shut your trap for a few minutes."

Rachel's indignation stirred. "For your information, you're not the only victim of the high school grapevine."

"Oh, that's right, the big threesome. Gotta wonder what Karofsky thinks about his boy toy stepping out, huh?"

"Actually," Rachel said with upturned nose, reveling in having _exclusive_ information, "he doesn't care."

Santana raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't care, huh?"

"No. In fact, he said..."

"Whoa ho..." Rachel frowned, but quickly realized that Santana's exclamation wasn't directed towards her, but something over her shoulder. She turned; Sam was walking down the hall, wearing an Earth Day jacket that she distinctly remembered on the shoulders of Kurt Hummel just months before. "Quinn's a lucky girl, isn't she?" Santana cackled with waggling eyebrows.

A dozen conflicting thoughts and feelings shot through Rachel all at once. One managed to drown out the others: _talk to Kurt!_ Without another word, she hurried off, leaving Santana feeling somehow better than she had in days.

* * *

_Santana continued the chain to Brittany..._

The last notes of "Songbird" faded from their throats and the piano. Neither girl saw or heard Brad gingerly rise from the bench and make his discreet way out of the room.

"I'm not sorry," Santana said flatly, as if trying to cut off words that weren't yet said. "I refuse to be sorry that I have a chance to be happy."

"I know," Brittany said softly. "I just..."

"Yeah." Santana suddenly felt very small under Brittany's wet, wide gaze. "I'll do it," she said before she had a chance to change her mind. "I'll be on 'Fondue for Two.' And I'll sure as hell go to the prom with you."

Brittany's face glowed, a warmth that melted Santana's heart in seconds. "Really?" The glow faded. "But... what about Blaine?"

"He'll understand," she said dismissively.

"Aren't you running for Prom Queen...?"

"Who said the King and Queen had to actually come together?" Santana took Brittany's hands in hers. "I said it's fine. And I even have a funny story to tell your audience when I get there. I just heard that Karofsky doesn't even care that Kurt's stepping out on him with Quinn and Sam."

Brittany cocked her head. "How is that funny?"

"Hey, I find it hilarious." Santana's hands squeezed Brittany's. "I'll see you soon."

At the time, she meant it. She really, genuinely meant it. That knowledge would be the only thing that sustained her in the weeks to come.

* * *

_From here, the process melted into the background. Brittany let it slip to Azimio Adams, who joked about it with George Peyton..._

"It's ridiculous!" Kurt was on a tear, and Dave knew better than to interrupt. He simply nodded politely to indicate he was listening while he sipped his Italian soda. "I can't believe they're so focused on idiotic rumors and sticking their noses where it doesn't belong when Nationals is practically here!"

"They're curious," Dave shrugged. "Human nature."

"Oh, they're _curious_ , all right." Kurt snorted. "I love them - I do - but I just wish they'd _listen_ once in a while instead of just doing whatever comes into their heads!"

"Yeah, well, if _that_ were in human nature, the world would have a lot fewer problems." Dave stared at the table for a moment, as if lost in thought at something he'd said. Kurt drank his coffee as he patiently waited for Dave's meandering mind to return home. It took only a few seconds more for Dave's head to whip back up. "Oh! Almost forgot - the Warblers are having their annual party at my place this year. Wanna come?"

Kurt was almost surprised at his immediate, visceral reaction. "I don't know..." He gently swirled his coffee cup, his eyes following the spiraling ripples. "It's not that I don't want to see them again, but it feels kind of... awkward..."

"I understand," Dave said. "But we'd all love it if you came. It'll be a full house; my mom's visiting for the weekend, along with..."

"Grandpa Murray?" Kurt's hand clutched at Dave's arm in hope and wide-eyed eagerness. "I'd get to meet _Grandpa Murray_?"

"Yeah..." Dave's lips curled into a smile. "So you think you'll be coming?"

Kurt's neck nearly broke from nodding. "Wild horses couldn't drag me away!"

* * *

_George Peyton mentioned it to Nellie Collins over dinner, who texted to Allen Rusch..._

Blaine tapped his fingers on his desk as he clicked the "Refresh" button for what had to be the twentieth time in the past half hour. The latest episode of "Fondue for Two" still had yet to start.

He'd been afraid something like this was coming ever since that first episode came out (an unfortunate turn of phrase, but there you go). There was only so much you could hear about "sexy Brittany" this and "fucking Abrams should die in a fire" that before you got the message. Hell, Blaine was pleasantly surprised that Santana deigned to tell him her plans at all. Sure, it'd been a "I'm doing this, you're not changing my mind, and we'll decide on damage control after," but it was a hell of a lot more than he expected.

He glanced at his watch. The show was supposed to have started eight minutes ago. Were they running late for some reason? Mental images of Santana and Brittany making out madly, heedless of the time, flitted through his head (and completely failed to do anything for him, a fact which was still kind of depressing). Okay, one more refresh, then maybe he'd be able to do homework without thinking of...

His bedroom door flew open. The only thought he was able to start as he jumped was that only one person he knew was actually capable of doing that with such force.

"Santana!" The young woman herself stomped in, throwing herself onto Blaine's bed with a force that made the springs creak. She quickly scrambled into a sitting position, taking a despairing look at her phone. "How the hell did you get..." He trailed off as he saw her face: scrunched, wet, streaked with runny make-up, trembling lip as if ready to burst out into sobs at any moment. "Santana?"

"I couldn't do it," she choked. "I was going to, and I... just couldn't do it..."

Without a word, Blaine sat on the bed next to her and wrapped her in a hug. She threw her arms around him, her wrenching bawling quickly soaking through his shirt. He wasn't sure how long they sat there, how long Santana cried. He only knew it felt a lot later by the time they finally separated, with her sucking in the snot that was threatening to run out her nose.

"We've done this before, haven't we?" she sniffed.

"Yeah, we really gotta stop meeting like this," Blaine said with a small smile.

Santana groaned as she fumbled in her purse for a tissue and wiped her eyes. "God, I'm pathetic. Every time I need someone, I run to the closeted jerk jock coward who can't even solve his own pitiful issues."

"Well, you know what they say: misery loves company. We're both miserable, so we love each other's company."

"Speak for yourself."

"What, you're not miserable right now?" Blaine got no reply. "Thought so."

"You don't have to pretend you're not relieved," Santana snapped. "Now your precious little hetero image won't be threatened."

Blaine shook his head. "I was thinking about it before, but from the second you came in, that never entered my mind."

"Yeah, right."

"It didn't, San." He stared her right in the eyes, his gaze never wavering.

"Holy shit..." Her jaw almost literally dropped. "It really didn't..." Santana stared; her eyes were glimmering with moisture, more vulnerable than Blaine had ever seen them, than he could ever have imagined. It took her a long time to speak again. "Can we pretend?" she whispered.

"Pretend what?"

"That we're straight. That we give a fuck about each other. That we're a happy normal _hetero_ couple who aren't pining for someone else. I just want... _need_ to feel normal for a few minutes. Please?" This last word was so low that he almost missed it.

Santana's despair was starting to scare him, but what scared him more was that he _understood_. "Sure. Anything for you."

She snickered, a sound that was, to Blaine's great relief, a little more like herself. "I didn't say we could start yet."

Blaine opened his mouth, then shut it again. "Fine, whatever."

Santana closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if in preparation. Finally, she opened them again. "Okay, now."

Blaine pulled Santana close to him as they looked each other in the eyes. Slowly, they sank onto the bed, lying there, tangled up in each other like vines. It was an intimate position, one that they both knew would go no further than that. Yet it helped the pretense for them both. It helped a lot. Blaine wasn't sure how long they were like that - an hour? A year? A century?

"I love you," Santana said. He wasn't sure if she was still pretending.

"I love you too," he replied. He definitely was not.

* * *

_Allen Rusch mentioned it to his sister, who tweeted about it, which was read by Vickie Lucas..._

Kurt wasn't quite sure what he expected from a gathering of Warblers. On one hand, they were Daltonites, which brought expectations of high tea and crumpets. On the other hand, they were also _teenage boys_ , which brought expectations of beer and porn on TV (which always struck Kurt as a _tad_ less heterosexual than some made it out to be).

But he'd forgotten that this was being held at Dave's house, with three adults wandering about with eagle eyes. So the party was relatively sedate in that sense, with no drink stronger than soda, R rated movies at best, a den turned into a game room (which was currently hosting the last four players in a poker tournament and a rousing game of a board game called Small World), and, to Kurt's surprise, a karaoke machine.

The Warblers freely passed from activity to activity, talking and laughing and tossing Kurt the occasional question, some of which were less awkward than others. Kurt handled them with aplomb (helped partly by Dave giving conveniently timed death glares when the questions got a little too focused towards the two of them); unfortunately, there was one thing he couldn't handle - or at least, that his digestive system couldn't handle.

It was simply the quantity of food. Burgers, chips, chocolate covered almonds, the occasional celery stick dipped in ranch so he didn't feel like he was inflating his waistline _every_ second. Kurt got up from the sofa, said his "I'll be right back"s to Trent and Barry, and went off in search of a bathroom, his stomach making these perfectly _awful_ sounds. He struggled to remember the directions Dave had given earlier, each closed door looking more the same the more seconds that passed. _Let's see... second door on the... right?_ He reached for the doorknob, but stopped when he heard voices on the other side.

"... don't know what to say, Murray." That was Paul Karofsky's voice. Kurt had met Dave's father once or twice before, back when they were discussing a restraining order against Blaine. Since then, he knew that he and Kurt's own father had been keeping in touch - talking about what, he had no idea. Paul had struck Kurt as a quiet but solid man, and so far, the afternoon did nothing to loosen that impression.

"You have to tell him sooner or later." Ah, Grandpa Murray. The infamous Grandpa Murray. Kurt had been practically trembling in anticipation for the entire drive to Westerville. In some ways, he fit Kurt's mental image almost perfectly: tall and thin, white hair pulled back into a long ponytail, full beard and mustache, the barest tiniest _hint_ of cannabis clinging to his clothes. But in other ways, his expectations were defied: he was wearing a conservative blue button-down shirt and khaki pants - not a single tie-dye or Birkenstock in sight. Not to mention, he was whip-smart and wickedly funny, more than keeping up with guys one third or more his age in coming up with clever lines to mock the DVD of _Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen_. It was pretty clear where Dave had gotten his own wit from.

Kurt hadn't meant to listen in, even this long, especially with his stomach still mocking him. He meant to quietly slink away and keep searching for the restroom. But before his brain could send his muscles the signal to do so, Paul Karofsky spoke again. "I know. It's just going to break Dave's heart, you know?" That got his attention.

"I wish we could help. But things are pretty tight on our end too."

"I know. Damn economy. I just... I just feel like such a failure."

"Hey." Grandpa Murray's voice turned stern, as if he were addressing one of his kids or grandkids, and not his son-in-law. "You're not a failure. You've done the best you could. Dave will understand."

"Will he? He loves Dalton. And all the good it's done him... It's given him the stability that he really needed. How can I tell him that he may have to leave Dalton and almost all his friends because I don't have the money?"

Kurt managed to successfully stifle his gasp, his roiling intestines forgotten for a brief moment.

"You've still got several months," Murray pointed out. "We can figure something out."

"But what if we can't? You know I had to shoot my credit to hell to get us to Westerville; another loan's out of the question. And if I withdraw from Dave's college fund, he won't have it when he needs it later." Paul's voice was nearing despair. "What if..."

"We don't have time or energy for 'what if's," was the firm reply. "We just do what we have to. If the 'what if' comes, _then_ we deal with it. Not a second before."

A wet chuckle came from the other side of the door. "I'm not Dave or Jack, Murray."

"What can I say? I'm an equal opportunity lecturer."

By now, Kurt had recovered his bearings, and turned away from the door. He got only a few steps before Dave appeared in the hall. "There you are! We're gonna start..." He trailed off. "You don't look so good. What's wrong?"

Fortunately, Kurt had a ready, and actually partly true, excuse. "I, uh, forgot where the bathroom is. And I kind of have to go..." He gave a sheepish grin, instantly disarming the other boy.

"Third door on the left," he chuckled.

 _Wow,_ Kurt thought in chagrin. _Not even close._ "Thanks." He quickly tore open the door, not even knocking first. Fortunately, it was empty; he immediately locked himself in, and almost threw himself onto the toilet. As he let out a sigh of relief and release, he tried not to think of what he'd just heard. There was obviously no way he could tell Dave, not with his father's dilemma clear - besides, what if he found a solution? But he couldn't help but feel like a huge hypocrite; there was no way Dave wouldn't want to know this, yet Kurt was keeping it from him, deliberately, because of his own discomfort. It struck a little too close to home, no matter how unreasonable the comparison was.

His business done, Kurt soon returned to the party. The food was definitely taking its toll on the others too; the conversation was less loud and boisterous. Theo Kaplan was even napping in Paul Karofsky's recliner. Kurt made his way to the kitchen to find himself another bottle of Diet Coke. Grandpa Murray was already there, scooping vanilla ice cream into bowls. "Sundaes?" Kurt asked as he opened the large blue cooler on the nook table. "You spoil us."

"What do you kids have to do with any of this? This is all mine, bitches!" He cackled, a high pitched, crackling sound. Kurt found his soda and started to leave, when Grandpa Murray spoke up again. "Do you mind talking with an old man for a minute in private?"

Kurt turned back, his eyebrows rising. "Of course."

"Thanks; I've been waiting all week to meet you."

Kurt considered a "same here," but decided it would actually be a little creepy. "Really? Why's that?"

Grandpa Murray's eyes were twinkling. "I just had to meet the kid who's made my grandson so happy."

Kurt felt a heated blush rise on his cheeks. "Well, Dave's done a lot for me too."

"I know. And a lot _to_ you." The older man shook his head. "Just like his mother: a little too impulsive for his own good."

That surprised Kurt; Diane Patton Karofsky hadn't struck him as the impulsive type. She seemed so introverted, so unassuming; her greeting to Kurt had been so low key that Dave had to tell him later that it didn't mean she didn't like him. Then again, as with Murray and his wit, Dave's own habit of navel-gazing had to come from _somewhere_.

"He's been working so hard, trying to make up for what he did to you," Murray continued. "I don't live around here, so I don't get to see David as much as I'd like, but that I know for sure." He went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of soda of his own, with his preferred poison a root beer. He took a deep swig before speaking again. "He... thought he had to put up shields. Not to keep himself from getting hurt, but to keep him from hurting other people."

"But..."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying what he thought. I've known the kid his entire life, so believe me, I know how he thinks. Or doesn't, at times. He puts up all kinds of fronts sometimes, depending on what he thinks he needs to do to get out of the moment whole..." Kurt couldn't help but feel a more than nagging familiarity at that description. "But he's been showing more and more of himself these past few years." Murray smiled. "Guess that's why you like him so much."

"He's been a good friend." There really wasn't much more Kurt could think to say.

"Good. I'd have to kick his ass if he wasn't." Murray returned to his ice cream scoop. "I'm not tryin' to interfere with the two of you. I'm just a freeze-dried hippie giving an opinion. A completely biased opinion, but one all the same. All I know is that ever since David met you... He's been better and happier than I've ever seen him. And he's actually starting to come around recently... be more confident. I'd always hoped it would happen, but... Well, again, I have a feeling it's because of you."

"I..." Again, what else was there to say? "I'm glad."

"There you are!" Wes strode into the kitchen, sending Kurt flailing to get into a casual pose. Murray merely continued his service. "Need any help with the desserts, sir?"

"Mighty kind of you, Wesley. Mind if you grab the chocolate sauce and the strawberries?"

"No problem."

In that moment, Kurt hated Wes more than he'd ever hated any human being. It wasn't fair, but then, Wes's interruption hadn't been either. He _needed_ to make Wes squirm. And he knew just how to do it.

He stifled a smile as he said, "So... how're the GSA activities going?"

Wes stiffened, his left eye twitching. "Ah... Just fine."

"What are you guys up to these days?" Kurt took a casual sip of Diet Coke.

"Oh, you know. Usual. Meetings. Organizing. We're starting a drive to reach out to public schools, get their own GSAs started. We go to Garvey High next week."

"Ah. So whose idea was that?"

"Mine!" The suddenness of the answer was the only indication that it was at all false; on the whole, Wes was much better than David at the whole deception business. "I just thought... it was a good plan."

Kurt's expression was impressively impassive. "Well, I applaud you. That was certainly a wonderful idea."

Wes began to fidget. "Uh... thanks."

Murray had turned around by this point, an odd look on his face that told Kurt that _he_ knew too, and had also made similar promises. "Wesley... Why don't you start serving now?"

"Yes! I will!" The younger man immediately snatched up a pair of bowls and practically ran out of the room. Murray cast his odd look at Kurt, who simply shrugged and finished his soda.

* * *

_From Vickie Lucas, the chain extended to Morrie Latham, and from there to Robbie Masters..._

Blaine turned the paper over in his hands, its surface well-worn with wrinkles. His stare went from paper to phone, and back to paper. He hadn't even had the courage to program the number in; why the fuck did he think he was going to call it?

And why, for that matter, did he think Karofsky would be interested in what Blaine had to say? What could Mr. Perfect Out Prep Boy possibly know about what he was going through?

And yet...

Dinner was where it had all started. It'd started like a normal evening at the Anderson home, Blaine chowing down on his steak and kidney pie while his mother chewed delicately and his father sipped at a glass of wine. The normalcy had quickly gone down the drain, however, when his father actually spoke before the coffee was served.

"I talked with Rod Remington today. You know, the news anchor?"

Blaine had looked up from his plate, startled. "Uh huh?"

"He mentioned that he was thinking of doing a story on you. About the anti-bullying club you and your girlfriend started."

 _The one you didn't tell us about,_ Blaine's head had automatically filled in. He wasn't exactly sure how he'd come to the conclusion that he could hide the Bully Whips from his parents forever, or even why he was doing so. But as the days turned to weeks turned to months, his guard began to relax. But of all the ways he'd feared being exposed, being ratted out by a slick-haired, pearl-toothed, walking breathing cardboard cutout was _not_ in the top ten. Or even top hundred.

"Why didn't you tell us?" his mother had asked gently. "This is such a wonderful thing you're doing."

"I think it's rather... creative," his father had added with a somewhat sour look. "Certainly something that will help you in the future. Still, I can't see why..."

"I'm sorry," Blaine had burst out. "I should've told you before..."

"You certainly should have," his father had rumbled.

"But... I guess it just slipped my mind. I was so busy, and so were you guys. It just... became a habit after a while that I just didn't think was worth mentioning."

"I don't believe that." Blaine had blinked, startled; such a statement was certainly in his mother's character - direct, plain, firm - but it was also infused with other emotions he couldn't quite place. Disappointment? Concern? _Relief?_ "But... we can talk about that later. We're just so proud of you."

_Wait, what?_

"This kind of civic work and sense of responsibility is exactly what being an Anderson is all about," his father had declared.

 _Oh._ That sounded a lot more like the parents he knew.

His mother had picked up the thread. "But at the same time, I... we think it's wonderful the way you're helping others with your own hands and your own time. It... really shows how much you've grown."

Blaine had blinked once more. Now _those_ were sentiments he hadn't been expecting. But then... when had he started thinking of his parents as some sort of robots, or mere supervisors? Wasn't one of his earliest memories of going to a water park (a water park probably filled with common folk) and having the time of his fucking life with his laughing mommy and splashing daddy?

"I'd noticed how much happier you seem these days," his mother had continued. "Santana's a big part of it, isn't it? You really care about her, don't you?"

"Yeah," Blaine had answered, speaking the absolute truth. "I do." Not that he knew why. His parents knew about his parade of girlfriends, knew that this was the longest he'd ever been with any of them - of course it would have to be the lesbian. God only knew why or how they'd gotten so close; Blaine could barely believe it himself. Maybe it was all the time they spent together - the months of planning and frank plotting. Or maybe it was the ways in which they were alike: scared, yearning, confused, daring to hope, just a tiny little bit. Maybe it was the honesty of the relationship; Santana wouldn't stand for any of Blaine's usual masks, so he didn't bother. In exchange, Santana was certainly not going to bull him any shit, not about the things that mattered. However it happened, he was starting to become unable to pretend (at least as well as Santana did) that this was just a casual bearding relationship, doomed to never be anything more.

"Well, I'm glad you've found someone. Though I hope you aren't taking too much on your shoulders," his father had added. "I know you may feel responsible for that complaint brought by that..." He'd cleared his throat. " _Homosexual_ boy, but..."

That was it. That tore it. Blaine had shut down; he'd sleepwalked through the entire rest of dinner, the rest of the conversation a blur. He excused himself as soon as he could and practically ran back to his room, never noticing his father's confused stare and his mother's worried look. He'd locked his bedroom door, thrown himself on his bed, and, for the first time in weeks, plucked that piece of paper out of his dresser drawer.

 _I was an idiot... To think I actually had hope for a second there..._ He had to talk to _someone_ , but why Karofsky? Why not Santana? Santana, who was going through so much shit right now, who had similar problems to his, and couldn't even fix her own...

Blaine rubbed his eyes. He shoved the paper back into his dresser drawer. He wouldn't make that call. It's not like Karofsky was even a friend...

Not now.

But...

Maybe...

Maybe?

* * *

_And finally, the chain completed, going from Robbie Masters to Stu Rathbone to the eager ears of Jacob ben Israel..._

Kurt strode confidently down the halls of McKinley, finally feeling like he'd regained some equilibrium. The party had finished superbly, with a good time had by all. He'd actually forgotten all about his conversation with Grandpa Murray for a couple of hours, lost in enjoying the presence of good friends, Dave definitely included.

After the school week started, Sam's revelation of the truth came about. Kurt hated that he'd had to "out" his personal family problems in a way he certainly didn't want and wasn't ready for, but at least it had the effect of putting shame in people who frankly needed shaming. Finn had the chance to show that compassionate side that made Kurt fall for him (though the less thought devoted to _that_ period, the better - it was one that he was uncomfortable talking about even with Dave).

There was still the worrisome report in the Muckraker about Mr. Schuester leaving McKinley for New York, but all in all, it had been a pretty good few days. Nationals was quickly approaching, the opportunity to show the country what he and the other Glee Clubbers were made of. Gavroche had promised more information on NYADA, which was already showing a lot of promise from his own research.

Nothing could bring him down now.

And damn him for tempting fate.

Kurt stopped cold as a microphone was jammed into his face out of nowhere. "Kurt Hummel!" Jacob ben Israel's voice screeched. "How do you respond to reports of you in a swinging foursome with a top Cheerio, a backup quarterback, and a certain gorilla-like Dalton Academy student?"

"..." Kurt gaped.

"How often do you switch partners?" Jacob demanded. "Or do you all merge into one gigantic orgy of rutting flesh?"

"..."

"My viewers demand to know: what obscure kinks are practiced in these nightly bacchanals?"

Later, a huge headline on the JBI blog would declare: "HUMMEL REDUCED TO HYSTERICS BY PROBING QUESTIONS ON SEX LIFE!" Only those who actually dared to click on the video would see that the "hysterics" were absolutely there, but really consisted of hysterical laughter. Dave, timing it on first viewing, would put it at almost a minute and a half ("Sounds about right; I just remember that everything ached."). Dave would also start planning bloody retribution on a certain gossip reporter, if only for the endless ribbing he knew was imminent from his fellow Dalton students ("Do I tie him to the football goalposts _before_ or _after_ the shaving?"). Kurt, fortunately for Jacob, managed to talk him down ("Think of it as an exercise in self-restraint. One that we at McKinley practice daily when it comes to him.")

But it wasn't all bad, in the end. While a reputation as a swinger wasn't exactly one that Kurt particularly wanted, the "involvement" of Sam and Quinn did light up something akin to admiration in fellow students who'd sneered at, or just ignored, him before.

And that was good for hours of entertainment.


	23. Prom Queen 1: Letting It All Out

Really, Kurt knew he should've known better. He was, with very few exceptions, a firm believer in the old phrase "two people can keep a secret if one is dead." Did that mean he should've killed Finn?

Well, he decided later, he should've _at least_ seriously considered it.

It happened one afternoon in the living room. Kurt was trying to watch his TV program while Finn sat on the couch next to him and blabbered on about the prom, about Quinn, corsages, whether to wear his Bully Whips suit and save some money on rentals, Rachel (Kurt wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn't), limos, and on and on and on. Luckily, Finn's voice had reached a comfortable rhythm early on, so Kurt was able to easily tune him out. By annoying coincidence, his show ended just about the same time as a question from Finn broke his rhythm, so Kurt couldn't help but hear it.

"So what're you wearing to the prom?"

There it was - the question (or at least one variant of the question) he'd been hoping Finn wouldn't ask. Kurt sighed, turning towards his stepbrother as he considered how to answer. He knew he couldn't just evade or put it off; Finn would immediately zero in and start hassling him in his own Finnish way. _Nothing to do about it... Just have to be honest and hope._

"I'm not going to the prom."

"Huh? Why not?"

"It's just a dance, Finn - not exactly the social highlight of the year."

Finn grinned toothily. "We're in high school in Lima; it kinda is."

" _Touche_. But it's just not for me. Do you remember me at the sophomore prom? Or the freshman spring dance?"

"Well, no..."

"There's a reason for that."

"Yeah, but it's better now," Finn declared. "These past few months with the Bully Whips... I really think the school is changing."

Kurt was torn between his own belief (hope?) that Finn was right, and shaking his head at his naivete. Some habits of thought were just hard to break (one big reason why he understood Dave's struggle to some extent).

"And I know you want to go," Finn continued. "I saw you once last year staring at one of the posters in the hall. You really looked... Well, you looked kinda sad."

Kurt froze in embarrassment; he couldn't believe that someone had actually _seen_ that! He was about to ask why Finn had never said anything, but knew that he wouldn't have wanted him to do so anyway. "Be that as it may, the prom isn't something that's that big a deal for me," he lied, turning back to the TV. "Besides, there's no one I can go with anyway." _Fuck!_ Kurt knew those words were a mistake the instant they left his mouth. If he'd only kept _that_ idea out of the open, he might've been able to get out of this conversation intact. But no, he just had to let that slip. Idiot!

"No one?" Finn repeated, frowning. "What about Dave?"

"What about him? He's a friend. That's it."

"You two keep saying that, but I live with you, Kurt, and I talk with Dave all the time. Besides, you really think _every_ _one_ there is going to be with the love of their life?" Something about what he said seemed to startle Finn; a strange look came over his face, but the look quickly vanished. "This may not be any of my business..."

"It's not," Kurt said firmly, with a little chill.

"But he really likes you. And I know you really like him. I mean, I may not know a lot..." In his mood, Kurt couldn't help but stifle a remark; he covered it up with a cough. "But I'm pretty damn sure about _that_."

Kurt sighed. "Look, Finn, I know you mean well, but it just can't be."

"You do want to ask him, though."

"Maybe so, but that's irrelevant."

"Irrelevant? How? It's everything!"

"There's just... things you don't know." Kurt rubbed his eyes, wishing he had the guts to just get up, end the conversation, and walk away. But he couldn't bring himself to do that, not to his stepbrother, not to someone who'd done so much for him.

"Yeah, I know _something_ happened back at Dalton, but you've been home for weeks now, and..."

"It's not just that. I can't get into details, but I just can't ask him."

"But..."

"Finn! Please, I'm begging you. Drop it?"

To his relief, Finn nodded immediately. "Okay."

"And don't tell Dave we talked about this, or even mention the prom. Please?"

"I won't say a word to Dave, I swear."

* * *

"Kurt wants to ask Dave to the prom!" The rest of the lunch table stared at him, and Finn's face froze in horror. _How the fuck did that happen?_ One second he was just listening to the rest of the Glee Club having a conversation about the prom, and the next... It'd just... _slipped_ out. While he hadn't technically broken his promise to Kurt (this was the McKinley cafeteria, after all, and neither Kurt nor Dave were present), he knew that his stepbrother would never have wanted him to say that in front of the others either. _Shit, he's gonna kill me._

"He does?" Mercedes squealed. "I knew it!"

"It really was quite obvious," Rachel said in satisfaction, "past troubles notwithstanding. Of course, it has nothing to do with the somewhat shameful lack of other out LGBT students in the area, but I knew that..."

"Guys..." Finn squeaked. No one heard him.

"Best part is," Sam remarked between french fries, "all the Bully Whips will be there. It'll be no problem keeping an eye out for trouble."

"We can take shifts," Artie nodded. "I can arrange things on my end."

"Guys..."

"I think we should do more than that," Lauren added firmly. "We should spread out during the dancing and stuff, make sure we cover the entire room."

"Good idea," Mike said. "That way, Kurt will be in the center of all of us, and we can..."

"Guys!" Finally, the chatter stopped, and everyone turned towards Finn again. "Kurt's... He's not going."

"What? Why?" Rachel demanded. "I thought you said he wanted to ask..."

"He does! He's just... not going to."

There was a moment of silence (or as much silence as one could get in the middle of a crowded high school cafeteria). "That doesn't make _any_ sense," Santana said flatly.

Finn groaned inwardly; he was getting more and more of an idea of the genie he'd let out of the bottle. "He has his reasons. Look, no matter how much he wants to go..."

"So he _does_ want to go," Mercedes interrupted bluntly.

The Glee Club's unofficial student leader turned even redder; images of Kurt beating him up in the middle of a cartoon dust cloud rose unbidden in his mind. "Like I said, he has his reasons. I think we should respect that. Okay?"

The table fell silent again. Then the chatter began amongst them, Kurt most noticeably not being one of the subjects. Finn's eyes flickered from face to face; he realized full well not a single one of them had answered his question. Should he have tried harder to convince them? Or would they actually leave it alone?

He decided that he'd trust it was the latter, and pray.

It was, of course, the wrong decision.

* * *

Will Schuester rubbed his forehead. "Look, Principal Figgins, I'm sorry that Air Supply canceled..."

"It would've been like a little concert, right in my school!" Figgins lamented.

"But I'm not sure that the Glee Club can do this. It's only three weeks to Nationals, and we'd have to take out the time to learn a whole new set list."

"See, there you go," Sue Sylvester said. "You'll just have to find some other shambling wreck of a band past its prime. I hear the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block are uniting; maybe you could ask them. It would certainly be a better show than Schuester's merry band of mutants."

Will frowned; Sue seemed determined not to let New Directions perform. Perhaps, after the Night of Neglect concert, she couldn't bear to let them have any more accolades than they had. The very thought set a fire in his belly, but no, he had to resist. Nationals.

"I can pay you $400," Figgins pleaded.

"We already have the money for Nationals," Will pointed out. _No thanks to anyone else in this room,_ he thought. "And a good start on next year's budget."

"Who knows what could happen by then!"

"Who indeed," Sue said with an odd smirk.

"Please, William," Figgins begged. "I don't have anywhere else to turn. I'll owe you a favor!"

Now _that_ idea was intriguing. Seeing Sue stiffen at the offer made it even more so. "A favor," Will repeated. "One I can call in at any time for any purpose?"

"Within reason, of course, but yes!"

Will hesitated. It _was_ a tempting offer. And it would be, at the least, a comfort to have that ace up his sleeve; he believed that Principal Figgins, for all his flaws, would honor his promise. Besides, the extra $400 would be a nice cushion to deal with any emergencies that could arise. Taking one look at Sue Sylvester, at her smoldering, frustrated glare (that just screamed "say yes, and I'll grab that shameful 70's carpet you call hair and slam your doughy face into Figgins' desk so hard, your chin will be the most normal looking part of you"), was all he needed to firm the decision in his mind.

"Principal Figgins, New Directions would be honored to perform."

* * *

"How're things in sector four?" Blaine asked over his earpiece as he watched the mulling students drift by.

"Actually, I'm in sector three," Mike Chang's voice replied. Blaine grimaced. _Damn Abrams and his stupid code names._ "But things are fine over here."

"Good." The line was quiet for a few moments as Blaine made his rounds, with both Bully Whip and guarded students barely noticing each other - such was the commonality of the sight these days.

"Hey." Blaine nearly jumped at the sound. Mike Chang wasn't the most talkative of guys most days - certainly not to him. He was an okay guy, really (though Blaine was fully aware that Chang's _oh my God_ body was a big part of the reason his life was the way it was to begin with) - just not... extroverted the way a lot of the other guys on the football team were. So this initiation of conversation was a big surprise. "Why don't you want to join the Glee Club?"

"Huh?"

"You were good at the halftime show - really good. We could use a voice like that."

Blaine shook his head. He'd thought, _hoped_ , that this issue was over and done with by now. "I told you, my rep..."

"In case you didn't notice, most of your Bully Whips are in the Glee Club anyway. How much worse could your rep possibly get? I saw you out there, and when we did 'She's Not There.' You like it. And you have the voice. So why not?"

"I... I don't know." Blaine meant it, but some small voice in his head was saying, _you do_ so _know; you just don't want to eve_ _n think about it._ He ignored that voice; he was very good at that. "I guess part of it is my dad. He'll take me being on the football team, 'cause it's sports and all, but the Glee Club? He'll think it's a big waste of time." Once the words "my dad" came out of his mouth, the rest became harder and harder to stop. Why was he even saying any of this? It wasn't like Chang was a bosom buddy or something, despite their playing football together. _No, but what he_ is _is discreet._ _You can trust him not tell anyone anything you say to him._ And maybe that was enough. "He... I don't know what he wants from me, you know? I've done everything he wants, and I still feel like he doesn't think it's enough. I dunno if you know what that's like, but..."

To his astonishment, his earpiece was suddenly filled with hysterical laughter. He could only imagine how the others around Mike were reacting, watching this suited, sunglasses-wearing fellow student suddenly cracking up in the middle of the halls. Blaine himself was frozen, his mouth probably agape like an idiot, as the last students almost late for class stepped around him. "Uh... Chang? You okay?"

"I... Oh, God, I... I'm sorry!" he managed to gasp between bursts of merriment. Finally, the laughter tapered off; now there was only the sound of his gasping for breath. The halls were empty now, classes begun (though the two of them had free periods, thus their patrol assignment). "I... I'm fine. I'm fine." Mike's voice became calmer, firmer. "I do know what it's like," he finally said. "I guess... you learn how to live with it. Do what you can. Build up the courage to do what you want and face the consequences." The line was quiet again for a good half minute; Blaine reached up to take his earpiece out before he heard Mike speak again. "Remember Matt?"

"Matt who-? Oh, Rutherford? Yeah, I do. You two were tight, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Do you know why?"

Blaine shrugged, immediately feeling foolish for doing so when his conversation partner couldn't see. "Not really."

"You know Matt's brother Luke?"

"Do I know Luke Rutherford? Shit, yeah. I mean, I never _knew_ him, but... the guy's a McKinley _legend._ "

"There you go." Mike sighed. "Matt could never get out of Luke's shadow. Everywhere he went, he wasn't himself - he was Luke's little brother. Even his own parents... It was always 'why can't you be more like your brother' and 'your brother would've done better.' I _saw_ it; they'd say it when other people around. It's not Luke's fault; he was actually a pretty nice guy. He'd almost _beg_ his parents not to compare them. Hell, he's the only reason Matt joined the football team in the first place - told him that he was talented enough on his own to make his own mark." He fell quiet again; despite the distance, Blaine could almost _see_ Mike trying to find the words. "Anyway, we found out... we had some family things in common. We talked, and... we became friends."

"I see... I think."

"I guess my point is that I know what it's like to be under pressure, but you can't let it get to you or keep you from doing what you want, or you'll always be wondering 'what if.'"

Blaine forced a laugh. "I didn't know you guys were so hard up for new members."

"Just... think about it, okay?"

"O-okay. Sure." The Bully Whips' patrol period was long over. Yet, Blaine knew that if he let himself, this talk could go on... maybe forever. That was exactly why he turned off his earpiece and put it in his pocket.

* * *

It was definitely one of the _weirdest_ days in Dave Karofsky's life. It started with that e-mail from Mercedes Jones, consisting only of a scan of a flyer for McKinley's junior prom. Fine, if a little odd, though it brought up all kinds of interesting ideas. Then there was the Facebook private message from Rachel Berry: **I don't know if you know this, but our junior prom is coming up. We would love to see you there. Of course, you can't get in without a date from McKinley, but I don't think that will be a problem. ;)**

That was when things began to get clearer. Things became even more clear with Puck's text message: **kurts gonna sit out the prom what ru gonna do about it?** Then, of course, he would've had to have been an _idiot_ not to get it when he got the phone call from an Ohio area code - a number that wasn't in his contact list.

"Hello?"

"Kurt wants you to ask him to our prom."

"Uh... Is this Santana?"

"If you leave him hanging, I'll make you regret your parents ever met." End call.

Okay. Message received.

When he and Kurt next met for their usual "hanging out" time at the Lima Bean, he had a decision to make. He had little doubt that this was just the beginning of what Kurt's friends were willing to do if he did nothing, so in the end, it was a pretty easy choice to make.

"So..." Dave began, "I hear your prom is coming up."

Kurt paled. He was many things: fashionable, opinionated, gay. One thing he was _not_ was stupid. His white pallor immediately turned red and stormy. "David..." he began through gritted teeth. "You're a real friend, right?"

"Of course I am. Why...?"

"Then I'm going to have to ask you to help me move a body soon." He got up and turned to the rest of the room. "Doesn't _anybody_ in this town know how to keep a damn secret?" Kurt yelled. The other patrons and employees stared at him as he sat back down, jaw still clenched in anger. "Finn is a dead man. _Dead._ "

"Whoa, I don't know what's going on, but Finn didn't tell me anything. Actually, it was almost everyone in your Glee Club _except_ him."

Kurt rubbed his forehead. "God, David, I am _so_ sorry. I begged him not to say anything..."

"Then you _did_ want to ask me."

"It's like you said for yourself," Kurt sighed. "I just wanted to be a part of a major social event as an open gay man - and with a guy, not just some sympathetic female friend. I wanted to feel like I belonged, somehow. Do what all the straight kids do without thinking. But I knew I couldn't ask you to go with me. For one thing, it's still too soon, for both of us. But it was mostly because of the... the..." He wanted to say "incident," but it was far too mild a word, and just thinking the word "attack" made his stomach churn.

Dave saved him from his dilemma. "You can say it, Kurt: the Sadie Hawkins dance."

He let out a breath. "Yeah. That. I couldn't ask you to basically relive the worst night of your life just so I could go to my school gym, shuffle around on the floor, and drink watered-down punch. I have no right. I knew if I as much as mentioned the prom, you'd feel obligated to go..." He stopped, realizing the implications of what he just said. Kurt managed to continue, but only with some difficulty. "Just... just forget it, all right? It shouldn't have gone this far, and I'm going to give all of them a piece of my mind next rehearsal..."

Dave held up a hand. "I just have one question, and I want you to answer honestly: do you want to go?"

"Dave, that doesn't matter..."

"It matters to me," he replied firmly. Kurt's mouth snapped shut. "First point: I don't have to be your 'date.' I can be... an escort. No, wait..." He backpedaled at once seeing Kurt's amused expression. "An accompaniment. A supportive friend. Whatever. As for the other thing... I won't lie: just thinking about it makes me nervous. But what makes me more nervous is the thought of staying home forever, and letting one of my best friends miss out on something he wants to do. I owe you - more important, I _want_ to help you. I can't let one bad night taint every night that comes after. I'm tired of not letting myself be happy. And this would make you happy. Hell, it'll make me happy too, because I'd be helping a friend. This isn't an obligation. _This is what I want._ " He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Look, Kurt, this isn't about just you; you've been telling and encouraging me to not be so buried in 'what if', not be afraid. Please, help me face my past like a man." Dave smiled sheepishly. "Will you go with me to the prom?"

Kurt blinked; his eyes were moist. "What, no kneeling?"

"I'm not proposing," Dave snorted. "Seriously, please don't worry about me. Just do what you want to do."

Kurt began nodding. "Yeah... I do want to go. Thank you."

"No problem."

"But Finn's still a dead man."

"Ehh, whatever."

* * *

"That was smart of Dave," Santana remarked as she held her latest dress option up to her body. "If he'd been chicken, I would've had to turn his boy bits inside out."

Kurt shuddered. "Thank you for the mental image. But it was a harder thing than you think. Not that you had any way of knowing that." He'd grudgingly started forgiving his friends for their meddling, but Finn was still getting the silent treatment. Said stepbrother was even more ingratiating than usual in a desperate attempt to make up for his slip, which only deepened Kurt's annoyance, as sweet as it was.

"And now you have your date," Rachel said happily as she picked up a sparkly black number.

"Not exactly a _date_. We're going to the prom together. That's it. We might not even dance."

Mercedes raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh huh."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'm tired of having to explain. Let's just get back to the dresses, shall we?"

"Well, don't worry about either of you," Santana said. "Every Bully Whips member will be on high alert. As far as we're concerned, you and Dave are priority one."

"Thank you, but I'm not sure that'll be necessary. No one's harassed me since I returned..."

"No reason not to look out for you," Mercedes remarked. "We're all working together on this, so even with both Bully Whips duty and performing, we won't miss out on too much fun. It's no problem."

Kurt nodded in reply, not trusting himself to say anything (at least not without some embarrassing display). "Try that one," he told her, pointing towards one of the racks.

Mercedes' face lit up when she followed his finger. "Ooh!" She immediately pounced on the indicated dress.

"By the way," Santana said, "when are you gonna outfit your date?"

"I told you, he's not really my date. And I'm letting Dave dress himself." There was a dead silence; every girl in the room was now staring at him. "What?"

"You." Santana's voice was slow, flat, unbelieving. "Miss Fashionista Control Freak. _You_ are letting your prom date dress himself."

This time he didn't even bother to correct the terminology. " _Yes_ , I am. He's a big boy; he can handle it." Kurt's voice turned low and conspiratorial. "Besides, I've been giving him fashion lessons for months now. I'm dying to see if he can put it into practice."

"Ohhh." Santana gained her own grin. "This is gonna be an entertaining prom, that's for sure."

If she'd realized how right she was, she might not have looked forward to it so much.

* * *

"Dave." Burt wasn't quite sure yet exactly how he felt about the young man he opened the door to. But Kurt had discussed things with him at length, so he at least felt comfortable with giving Dave a friendly nod. "Come on in. Kurt will be down in a minute. Finn's hiding in his room for some reason I'm not exactly sure of."

"Thanks, Mr. Hummel."

Burt watched as he entered the house. He pushed the door shut, the lock sliding home with an almost foreboding "click." "Before Kurt comes, can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked quietly.

"Sure thing." The two adjourned to the living room; Dave sat on the couch while Burt swung his recliner to face him.

"We haven't had a chance to talk one-on-one," Burt began. "Not since... You know."

Dave nodded. "Yes."

"Kurt told me everything, both at the time and after." Burt paused, remembering those painful nights. "He was very hurt by what you did, Dave."

"I know, sir. God help me, I know."

"I thought you would. I defended you then, in a sense. And everything I've heard since then from Kurt has assured me that you realize you made a mistake. But the truth remains that you betrayed his trust, and he's sticking his neck out for you again by asking you to the prom." Burt struggled to keep his face neutral as he leaned forward in his seat. "Man to man, I need to know that _I_ can trust you. That you're still a friend to my son. That you'll treat him the way he deserves to be treated from now on."

Dave's answer was immediate and firm. "You don't have to worry, Mr. Hummel. I'll cut myself off from Kurt before I let anything like that happen again."

Burt gazed into Dave's eyes for a long moment - so long, the younger man started getting nervous. When Burt finally spoke, his voice was flat, calm. "All right. I believe you."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I'm still not taking my eyes off you. For _many_ reasons."

Dave swallowed, getting a feeling he knew just what was being unspoken. "Understood."

"Good. With that out of the way, I hope you boys enjoy the prom. God, I remember mine... Like during my own junior year, when my best friend and his date dressed up as..."

"Dave!" Dave and Burt rose as Kurt came downstairs. "You're just in time; I was just putting on the finishing touches."

"Can I see it too?" Finn's voice emanated from somewhere upstairs; it was pleading, not to mention kind of pathetic.

Kurt sighed loudly enough for Finn to hear. "All right, fine. But don't you touch it."

"I won't! I promise!"

"Promises, promises. You make them so easily. If only you found it that easy to keep them." His voice had taken on an airy, put-upon tone that Dave couldn't help but snicker at, despite Finn's discomfiture.

"Aw, c'mon, Kurt, I said I was sorry..."

Kurt rolled his eyes as he led his father and Dave upstairs; Finn, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a puppy, quickly appeared next to Kurt's bedroom door. Studiously ignoring his stepbrother, Kurt rested one of his hands on his bedroom door in a dramatic pose. All at once, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. "Ta da!"

The outfit was hanging from an empty rack in the middle of the room, perfectly set up so that the overhead light bathed it in warmth. Of the four men on the other side of the door, three stared while the fourth beamed in pleasure.

"It's a homage to the royal wedding, with a touch of the Scottish, of course. Well? What do you think?"

"It's you, Kurt," Dave finally said. "It's really you."

"Is that a skirt?" Finn asked, squinting.

"It's a _kilt_ , thank you very much."

Finn got a weird, sappy grin on his face. "So you'd be like a gay Braveheart! Cool!"

"Dad?"

"I... dunno, Kurt..."

"About what?"

Burt cleared his throat nervously. "Don't you think it's a little... much?"

"Much?"

"For a dance... full of high school kids. It's a little..."

"Provocative?" Kurt asked flatly. "I'm asking for it with this outfit?"

"No! It's just... It's made to get attention. Stir the pot. I'm not sure that's something you really want to be doing."

"It's okay, Burt," Finn said. "The Bully Whips..."

"Can't be everywhere at once. You're one of a kind, Kurt, everyone knows that. I just don't think you should be..."

"Shoving my personality in their faces." Kurt's voice was even more lacking in affect, something none of his listeners thought possible.

"Please, Kurt, you know what I mean..."

"I do. And that's the problem." Kurt turned pleadingly towards his friend. "Dave...?"

"Wear it," Dave said without hesitation. Burt gave him a surprised look.

Kurt couldn't help but gasp, given what only he and Dave knew. "Really...?"

"Really." He turned to Burt. "Don't worry, Mr. Hummel, it won't just be the Bully Whips. I'll be there, and I'll kick the ass of anyone who even looks at him funny." Dave returned his gaze to Kurt, whose fingers were still brushing his lips. "Like I said, that outfit's you. And if you can't be _you_ , well, the douches already win." Finn nodded in agreement.

"Well..." Burt shuffled his feet. "All right. I'm trusting you boys to keep an eye out."

"Dad, I'm not a child. Don't worry. I'll be fine." He smiled at Dave, who gave his own shy smile back. Yes, he really would be fine. Somehow, he knew that as a stone cold fact.

* * *

Afterward, Kurt would wonder who was more nervous: him or Blaine. Third period from Chem to French was, according to Artie, a tricky knot in scheduling. With Tina unavailable at the last minute, he'd had no choice but to assign that escort duty to Blaine (although only after at least two tiresome rounds of "are you sure" and "I told you, yes, I'm sure" with Kurt).

The two walked down the hall, Blaine taking firm, no-nonsense strides, the overhead fluorescents casting squares of light over his sunglasses. Kurt clutched his books to his chest as he followed, feeling strangely like a celebrity charge in the care of some professional security detail (which, at least for McKinley, the Bully Whips were). It didn't take them long to reach the French classroom.

"Okay, here we are," Blaine said in a clipped, professional voice. "Brittany will be here to accompany you to lunch at first bell."

"Understood," Kurt nodded. "Though..." He licked his lips, unsure if he should continue. His mind propelled him on. "No one's so much as said 'boo' to me since I've been back."

Blaine's chest puffed up with pride. "Just goes to show how good the Bully Whips are."

"Yes, but... maybe it's more than that. Maybe... you've taught them to respect their gay peers. Or at least tolerate them. Or at the _very_ least keep their negative feelings to themselves." Kurt could see one of Blaine's eyebrows twitch. "Maybe... it's safe." He didn't add the words "for you too," but he didn't have to.

Blaine snorted. "Yeah, right."

Even with the sunglasses blocking his eyes, Kurt could see the emotions flashing across Blaine's face. He pressed on, not wanting to lose the moment. "I believed you when you said you'd changed, Blaine. I still do." He swallowed. "It was easy to hate you when you were hiding all your pain, but now... It's all I can see. You're taking off the masks... That's wonderful. It's the first step to..."

To his surprise, Blaine immediately turned around and stumbled away. He followed, concerned, as Blaine threw open a classroom door. Kurt entered after him. The room was empty, and Blaine was sitting at one of the desks, his sunglasses lying in front of him, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Kurt stood and watched patiently as the door clicked shut behind him. "W-why?" Blaine finally asked, his phlegmy voice muffled by his hands. "Why are you treating me this way?"

"What way? Like a fellow human being?"

"Yes!" he burst out, his head snapping up. Blaine's face was streaked with tears. _God, I'm such a woman_ , he thought bitterly. "Why don't... why don't you hate me?"

"Like I said, it's harder to do now that I know who you really are. And that person... he's so much better than the sarcastic, bitter jock you were pretending to be. Even if you don't believe that, then believe that he could _become_ that much better... if he stopped torturing himself for being who he is." Kurt sat at one of the other desks, careful to keep his distance; he wasn't sure Blaine was ready for anything closer. "I'm not saying you need to leap out of your closet now. But maybe you and the other Bully Whips have created a new world, one where you could. Let me repeat that: _you_ helped create that world."

"Oh, God..." Blaine's voice was a hoarse whisper, the tears flowing even more freely. "Kurt, I'm sorry. I stalked you and made you miserable and I'm so fucking sorry. If I recruited a hundred Bully Whips, it wouldn't make up for everything, but..."

Kurt nodded, getting a little choked up himself. "I know. I know you're truly sorry."

"But... do you... do you forgive me?"

"I..." _Now that_ , Kurt thought, _was a very good question._ "I think... you're well on your way to earning it, at the very least."

Blaine sniffled. "Yeah, well... That's way more than I thought I'd ever get."

"Deserving has nothing to do with it. Forgiveness lies in the heart of the person who gives it. If it's given... just take it and deal with it." Kurt smiled a little.

"Sure. Yeah." The bell had rung sometime during their conversation, but neither had heard it. Blaine finally wiped his face and rose, putting his sunglasses back on. He led Kurt out of the classroom and back to the door of the French room, now closed. "You'd better get to class."

"Yeah, I probably should."

"I'm on the schedule to take you from lunch to British Lit. Make sure to wait for me, okay?"

Kurt nodded. "You're the Bully Whip."

"Good." Blaine stalked off, not even looking back. Kurt watched him disappear down the hall, his mind a roil, before finally entering his French class.


	24. Prom Queen 2: First Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first posted this, I got comments worrying about this thing working towards Klaine. I was SO pleased at that. That means that I'm doing my job, especially since (in case you've forgotten) many of the scenes between Blaine and Kurt happened with Kurt and Dave in canon. :) I've always wondered if the canon Klaine would be a little more interesting if there were a halfway legitimate possible alternative (that wasn't a conniving asshole)...

The Warblers were clustered around the open door, staring.

"Wow," Thad breathed, shaking his head.

"Is that our future?" Barry Sorenson asked with a touch of awe.

"Are _you_ like this before you go out with Callie?" Justin Baylor asked.

"No!" David cried.

"Nah, my man isn't like that," Callie said, patting his arm. "He's probably worse." Her boyfriend glared at her, then returned his stare to the scene in front of him.

Dave's room was a mess. It looked like a tornado had sucked up the contents of a Macy's and injected all of it inside at once. Shirts covered every available surface. Ties hung over chairs, open drawers, shelves. A dozen pairs of pants were scattered across the entire area. In the center of it all was Dave, seemingly not even noticing anyone else was there, staring frantically at the shirts he held in each hand.

"The shade on this one is a little light... but _this_ one is the wrong cut... God, I'm never gonna figure this out!"

"Did anyone know that Dave _had_ this many clothes?" Wes asked.

"Should I go with a string tie? Bolo tie? Nah, too cowboy. Maybe a bow tie? Ugh, never in a million years..."

"He's going to explode soon if we don't do something," Trent remarked, his arms crossed as he leaned against the door jamb.

Justin gave a disbelieving look. "Do _you_ want to go in there?"

"No, but we can't just leave him like this. I mean, look at him!"

"Shoes, shoes... Fuck, I forgot the shoes! Do they really polish them with spit or is that just a phrase...?"

"I can order someone to go in," Wes said in an even voice that somehow sounded threatening.

"I quit!" Barry blurted out, throwing up his hands.

"Me too!"

"You try to make me, I'm out of here!"

Callie rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "Stand aside, boys," she declared, pushing her way past the Warblers and into the room. "This requires a woman's touch." She marched right over to Dave, who was pulling at his hair in frustration. She touched his shoulder gently; he almost literally jumped at the sensation. "Calm down, Dave. Take a deep breath." Callie stared at him; he stared back. "I meant that. Take a deep breath. Now." His tension starting to drain simply out of confusion, Dave obeyed. "There. Feel better?"

Dave paused, taking stock of his mind. "Y'know... I kinda do."

"Good. Now, what's the first thing Kurt taught you?"

"That the sum of the parts is more important than the parts themselves," he replied in an almost mechanical tone.

"Good," she repeated gently, as though coaxing a kitten out from under a car. "Then why don't we start with what you already know you're going to wear. You didn't mention needing a jacket...?"

"No... I only have one decent dress coat. It's that one." He pointed to a lone jacket draped over a chair, half-hidden under a couple of shirts and a tie.

Callie gently extracted it and shook it out, holding it up in front of them. "So now we have a starting point. Did Kurt go over how shirts and coats look together?"

"Yeah... yeah, he did. He said that with this style of jacket..."

And so it went, with Callie leading Dave over each part of the outfit, each lesson from Kurt, letting him remember what he was taught and make his own choices based on that. The Warblers watched in awe.

"Dude..." Justin whispered to David, "I think I'm in love with your girlfriend."

"You so much as hint that again and I'll kill you," he whispered back.

Before Dave (or the Warblers) knew it, the room was perfectly clean again, all clothes in their place, except for one outfit laid across the bed. Dave stared in speechless shock, the Warblers in even greater awe than before, and Callie with almost smug satisfaction.

"I think you've got it," she said with a nod.

"Love." Justin muttered under his breath. David elbowed him in the ribs.

* * *

Kurt stared at himself in his full-length mirror (an absolute must for anyone concerned with personal fashion), running his hands up and down the breast of his coat to smooth out the lingering wrinkles. _I look good,_ he told himself. _I look really good._ But good enough for Dave...?

He shook his head, banishing the thought from his head with some difficulty. Dave was on his way to weaning himself from that mode of thinking; no sense taking it up in his place.

Besides, this was supposed to be a no-pressure situation. It wasn't a date of any kind. Just two friends supporting each other. That's all.

 _Yeah, right,_ a voice in his head sneered. _Just two friends going to a_ prom _._ _That just_ screams _casual friendship._

And that voice had a point, really, despite the perfectly rational justifications he, Dave, and Finn had tossed around. If he'd actually wanted to keep some personal distance between him and Dave, he would've never even considered asking him to the prom in the first place. But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? It seemed that he'd already made a decision about Dave on some level, but was it really the healthy thing for either of them? Was he running headlong into getting hurt again, or pushing Dave faster than he was ready to go? Was he too easily dismissing the harm done to him? If he was, what did that mean? Too many questions... He was acutely aware that doing things for the wrong reasons could drive them apart before they ever had a chance.

It didn't help that this prom felt like a first step of sorts on a path that led to... what exactly? Kurt wiped his suddenly clammy, sweaty hands across the front of his blazer. Could he really tread as carefully as he needed to? Could he really take on all the risk that simply going down those stairs entailed?

And when did he start opening the bedroom door?

There it was again, the sense that the decision had already been made a long time ago. Kurt sighed, and just let his muscles take him where they would. It was almost amusing, the sense of detachment as he felt his body walk down the hall and start down the stairs. His ears picked up conversation from below.

"Thanks for letting me jam with you guys." It was Dave's voice, and once more Kurt's body reacted without thought, mostly with heat in his cheeks and a pounding in his heart, even as his cooler mind recognized with some chagrin what _those_ reactions meant.

"No problem," Finn replied. "We were having problems filling out the whole evening with songs as it was. Besides, it gives us more of a chance to spread out."

"I'm glad you're helping out with the back-up on my song, by the way. Sorry about that; I'll bet you and Quinn wanted to hit all the slow dances..."

Here Quinn's voice spoke up. "It's okay. We'll have plenty of time together anyway."

By now, Kurt was descending the stairs as the living room slowly slid into view. Carole was already prepared with her digital camera, smiling from ear to ear. "Ooh, there he is!" she squealed (the very _idea_ of Carole squealing would've been alien to him just months ago, but his new family was surprising him more and more every day - it was still wildly out of character, though. Perhaps something about the prom or the season was bringing out this side in her). At the exclamation, Finn and Dave both rose from the couch, turning as they did so.

That was the moment that both Kurt's descent and his heart stopped.

Dave was wearing a black suit, with a shirt so red it was almost crimson, its richness only interrupted by the stripe of black that was his tie. His shoes shone like a promise, and every inch of him was obviously freshly washed and shaved. The look fit him perfectly, the ensemble fit together perfectly, it was just... perfect. It was almost funny how Kurt's very first thought was, _My God... I am the best fashion teacher ever._

It took him a minute to realize that Dave was staring back, slack-jawed. "K-Kurt..." he finally managed to gasp out.

Kurt's own paralysis was quickly broken by a flash of light in his eyes. He blinked as Carole held up a finger. "Just one more!" This time, Kurt managed to not look directly into the burst. Burt and Quinn appeared from elsewhere in the living room, the latter joining Finn as the former stood next to Carole, a wistful look on his face. "Group picture!" she said eagerly, nudging Finn's shoulder. "You... two stand over there. Hurry up; don't you have to meet your friends at Breadstix? Kurt and Dave, stand to their right... No, closer! Perfect! Oh, come on, you're all going to the prom! Bigger smiles! Hold hands!" Finn rolled his eyes good-naturedly and took Quinn's hands in his.

"Oh, wait! I almost forgot." Dave jogged back into the living room and almost immediately returned with a clear plastic box. "No prom outfit's complete without one of these." He carefully pinned a corsage of white miniature carnations onto Kurt's left lapel.

"Very nice," Kurt muttered in admiration as he returned the favor with the second, identical corsage in the box.

Carole's voice took on an almost drill sergeant tone of commandment. "All right, everyone ready? Finn, stop slouching! Dave, turn a little to the left... no, a little more... perfect!"

"Sorry, dude," Kurt heard Finn say to Dave in a low voice. "She usually isn't anything like this."

"No problem."

"What are you boys talking about?" Carole snapped suspiciously.

"Nothing, Mom!" Finn yelped.

"I hope not. Kurt, Dave, come on now, hands!"

Dave turned to Kurt and shrugged. "You heard the lady." He took Kurt's hands; the grip was warm and his skin a little rough still, but gentle. Kurt squeezed, which seemed to send a bolt through Dave; his eyes widened and his smile twitched.

"Okay, everyone, look at the camera! Smile!" All four teenagers blinked back the flash of light that burst into their faces as Carole looked at the screen of her camera with an almost teary smile. "Oh, Finn, so handsome... Kurt, your outfit's stunning... And Dave - very distinguished! You all look very nice!" Quinn's smile faded; Kurt felt a stab of pity for her. He could almost hear Carole planning how to crop Quinn out of the photo. _I suppose she still hasn't quite gotten over what happened last year,_ he thought. Not that he could blame her, but it was still uncomfortable - Quinn was still a friend of his. The group began to disperse, much to Carole's displeasure. "What are you all moving around for? I need one more!"

Finn didn't even bother to stifle his groan. Kurt looked up at his father, who just shrugged helplessly.

Carole, fortunately for all involved, was oblivious to all this; she was too busy frantically adjusting settings on her camera. "All right, now, I want to see teeth! Smile! Wider, Finn! Ready? One... two... three!"

Flash!

* * *

Rick Nelson shuffled his feet, kicking up gravel that clattered across the McKinley High School parking lot. As he watched various couples and groups climb out of a seemingly endless stream of cars and enter the gym, he wondered for the hundredth time what he was doing out here, and why he wasn't inside with his date, Vickie Fishman.

He turned to his future teammate, Scott Cooper, who was busy talking in a low voice with Nate Parkman, another varsity hockey player. "Dude," Rick called out, which sent Scott turning towards him in annoyance at the interruption, "what the fuck are we doing out here, and why am I not inside with Vickie and her awesome, tight..."

"I told you," Scott snarled, "we're waiting for Hummel."

"What if he doesn't show up? Why the fuck do we even care?"

"He's gonna show. I overheard one of his Glee Club buddies talking about it. And he's bringing a _date_." There was a silent pause as Scott glared at Rick's blank look. "You know, a _dude_?"

"Oh." Rick's face twisted in disgust. "So who is this guy?"

"No idea. That's one reason why we're out here. To... meet him."

"And the other?"

"To give them a big old McKinley welcome. You know, the old fashioned kind."

"What about the Bully Whips?"

Scott snorted. "That's the best part. His friends wanted to escort them in, but he refused. Said something about it 'not being needed' and 'we can survive walking a few feet' or something. So they're all inside. Besides, we're not gonna push 'em around or anything. Just... remind them what we think of their kind around here, in case the thing later doesn't get the message across. Y'know, talk."

Rick shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno... I mean, if they squeal to the Bully Whips, we'll still get in trouble..."

"Then we _convince_ them to keep their mouths shut. They're just a couple of prancing fags; how hard could it be?" Scott's glare vanished as he slapped Rick's shoulder in a warm display of camaraderie (at least for him). "Hey, come on. We're gonna be teammates next year. You saying you want to spend another season in JV?"

"Well, no..."

"Then you gotta learn how to get along with us varsity players. Think of this as a team building exercise." Behind Scott, Nate nodded eagerly. "Like I said, we're not gonna do anything to them... nothing that leaves a mark, at least. We just gotta prove we're still top dogs, y'know?"

Rick stared for a moment before finally nodding. "Okay. Fine."

Scott grinned. "Good call, noob." The sound of a motor made them all turn. "There's Hummel's car. Let's go." The three approached the vehicle as it slid expertly into an empty space. They simply stood together a few feet from the driver's door as it opened, and Kurt Hummel emerged... in a skirt. "Woo, nice skirt, Hummel," Scott taunted.

To the surprise of all three, Hummel didn't seem to react in the slightest. He just nodded. "Gentlemen."

In reality, Kurt's mind was churning a mile a minute. The real reason he'd rejected an escort (he'd told Dave the night before; he, of course said it was "okay" without further comment, which Kurt wasn't quite sure if he should believe) was that he didn't want to give in to the fear of a repeat of the Sadie Hawkins dance, as if preparing was akin to acknowledging that it could happen again. He wanted himself and Dave to enter as just any other couple (even though, objectively, they were anything but). For a moment, staring at those three hockey players, he wondered if, in his pride, he'd made the most foolish mistake of his life. But the parking lot was better than deserted; it still had couples arriving and chatting with each other, albeit many feet away - in other words, witnesses. Besides, Kurt had long experience with bullies, and figuring out how they thought. These yahoos weren't out for blood. Which meant he could have some fun.

"Fine evening, isn't it?" Kurt continued mildly. "Are you the prom welcoming committee?"

"In a way," Nate sneered. "We never really got to welcome you back to McKinley properly."

"Well, no, but I assume that had something to do with the Bully Whips." Kurt emphasized that second to the last word with particular venom, as if it mattered to them.

"You're right," Rick chimed in, his voice a little tremulous with uncertainty. "But now we have the chance to... y'know, talk."

"And meet your date," Scott chuckled. "Hear he's from Dalton. One of those pretty boys, eh? Sure seems like you got a type, Hummel."

"I suppose I do," he replied with a serene smile. He turned back towards the car. "Dave? Come on, or we'll be late meeting the others." With that, he dropped the hand signal he'd held behind his back that kept Dave in the car.

To Rick, it was as if the ground had fallen out from under him. The passenger door of Hummel's car opened, and this... monster emerged. This brick building of a teenager was wearing a black suit with a red ( _blood_ red) shirt and a white flower in his lapel similar to the one in Hummel's. The worst part was, he _knew_ this guy. That's why his knees turned into jelly.

"K-Karofsky...?" he stammered.

The addressed young man got a wicked grin on his face. "Well, well, if it isn't Ricky Nelson. I forgot you went to McKinley!"

"You _know_ him?" Scott whispered harshly, his own countenance distinctly pale. Nate's eyes were already darting about, searching for an exit. The shock of losing their easy target, and so badly, seemed to have rattled them above and beyond the norm.

Rick nodded. "He... he's in my hockey league."

"Him? Is he good?" Rick answered the question with another nod. "You know he was a...?"

"Uh... Kinda? But I had no idea he..."

"How's the shoulder healing up?" Dave interrupted, his grin showing even more teeth as he leaned casually over the roof of Kurt's car. "Sorry about that check, dude, but you know, in the middle of a game... adrenaline and all that."

"Yes, Dave does get a little violent when he's... excited." Kurt shrugged. "It's been lovely talking to you boys, but surely your dates are missing you? Why don't you go inside and we can maybe chat again some other time?" As he spoke, Dave circled around the car and planted himself between Kurt and the hockey players, arms crossed with a dangerous glare.

"Y-yeah. Later. Sure." Scott turned to go, seeing at once that Rick and Nate were already practically running for the gym. Cursing them under his breath, he followed, very quickly.

Kurt watched them go, breathing a sigh of relief. "Well, why don't we..." He stopped. Dave was staring after them as well, an odd, pinched look on his face. He hadn't moved a muscle. "Dave...?"

"I did it right..." he whispered, a note of wonder creeping into his voice.

"Dave?"

"It... it happened again, and I did it right this time. I did it right and I protected you and you're safe..." He whirled towards Kurt with a desperate expression, as if searching for any hint that this wasn't reality. "You... you're okay, right?"

"I'm more than okay, Dave. In fact, I'm dying to dance."

The tension went out of Dave's posture at once. "Then we can't keep them waiting." He crooked his right arm, offering it to his date. Kurt smiled and took the proffered arm, and the two walked towards the gym together.

* * *

The decorations were sparse and a bit gaudy, but Dave expected that. The food was getting a little cold and the punch a little warm, but he expected that too. The music, however, was outstanding - and that too he expected, once he heard who was performing.

He only knew of four songs on the "official" set list, but various members of New Directions were planning on performing all evening, much of it numbers they'd already done at Sectionals or Regionals. At the moment, though, Puck, Artie, and Sam were performing that one YouTube song Trent had forwarded to all the other Warblers, and making it their own, in a weird way. He watched the writhing, jumping dance floor, his fingers tapping on his leg in rhythm with the music.

Kurt sat down next to him, the table empty except for the two of them. He carried a cup of punch and a small plate of finger food. "This," he pronounced, "is why we ate before we came."

Dave looked at the collection of pigs in a blanket, cheap and soggy french fries, and jello squares. "Yyyyeah, I'm good, thanks."

They watched in silence as Rachel took the stage. The band started up "Jar of Hearts," and the couples began holding themselves closer together.

 _I know I can't take one more step towards you_...  
 _'Cause all that's waiting is regret..._

Kurt was deciding whether to dare a nibble of a greasy-looking chicken strip when an upturned hand intruded into his field of vision. He looked up to see Dave standing before him, smiling shyly. "Can I have this dance?" he asked softly.

"I..." Well, there it was. Decision time. Kurt knew he could say no, stop this right now, and Dave would understand, especially if he explained himself. They could get through this evening as friends and go home as friends, and let everything happen when it was meant to happen. He could be saving them both a lot of pain if he said no right now. It was certainly the rational, sane thing to do.

So, of course, he took Dave's hand and followed him to the dance floor. He wasn't even surprised anymore.

Dave's left hand clasped in Kurt's right, and their opposing arms around each other's waists, the two swayed gently with the other couples, surprisingly lost in the crowd. Not a single glance was spared at either of them that they could see, but part of the reason may have been dancing around them: Finn and Quinn to their left, Mike and Tina to their right, Blaine and Santana in front of Kurt, with Sam and Mercedes in front of Dave. Kurt nodded towards them; Dave returned with an "I saw them too" nod. Then they let the music take over once more. The only sensation they could feel was _warmth_ : of their hands together, arms together, bodies together (well, not _together_ together, but definitely close enough). It was almost, but not quite, uncomfortable.

"You... wanna know a secret?" Dave finally said softly.

Kurt looked up at him. "Hmm?"

"This... uh... this is the first time I've ever danced with a guy. Like this, I mean."

"Really? But..." Then Kurt remembered: _Dave never got to that dance, did he?_ Kurt swallowed; a lump was in his throat all of a sudden for some reason. "And? How is it?" he managed to ask slyly.

"It..." Dave broke out into a warm smile. "It feels fucking awesome."

"Well, good. I'm glad I could give you that experience."

"Me too."

As they slowly turned, Dave found himself facing Blaine and Santana, who were clinging to each other like any normal two young people in love. "Is it true what you were telling me before... about Santana and... her name was Brittany, right?"

Kurt nodded. "They don't hide it as much with us."

"I... I'm not sure how to put this, but... Those two..." He nodded towards the "happy" couple. "...are a lot alike."

"Yes. They are."

Dave watched the other couple dance for a while longer. "But... they sure don't act like just a couple of beards, do they?"

"No," Kurt admitted.

"So what's going on with them...?"

"I have no idea..."

It was only seconds later (or at least, that's how it felt to them both) that the song ended. The two reluctantly parted, clapping for a teary-eyed Rachel with the rest of the floor. Santana replaced her to start up "Valerie" as Kurt and Dave returned to a table.

"That... that was..." Dave wiped his face with one hand. "Thanks, Kurt. This is already one of the best nights of my life."

Kurt felt a blush coming on. "You're welcome, Dave. I'm enjoying myself too."

"So... out of curiosity, who did you vote for prom court?"

"Finn and Quinn. Many dear friends were running, but I had to go with blood ties, such as they are."

Dave nodded, his smile fading a little. "Um, I'm not sure I should be bringing this up now, but... I have to admit... I'm kinda confused. No, I'm _really_ confused. This... thing we have. You. Me." He waggled a pointing hand between the two of them. "I asked before what Santana and Anderson are to each other, and... I'm not sure I know what we are either."

Kurt groaned aloud. "I have a confession: I'm just as confused as you are."

"I had a feeling." Dave leaned back in his chair, the cheap plastic folding thing playing merry havoc with his back. "So what do we..."

"Do? We have a good time. We enjoy each other's company. We continue having the best night of your life, and maybe mine as well. Then we go home, we sleep, and we deal with our confusion with clear heads another time. And I promise that we will. How about that?"

"That... sounds pretty good, actually." Applause interrupted their reverie; Santana was giving a nod to the crowd and leaving the stage. The gathered dancers dispersed as the band tuned their instruments.

"I gotta go," Dave sighed reluctantly. "Get ready for my song."

"Break a leg," Kurt replied cheerily. With one last, longing look, Dave disappeared into the crowd; Kurt followed with his eyes as long as he could. When he couldn't anymore, he began searching for Finn and Quinn. Ah, there they were, next to the punch bowl. Finn was casting his own looks, as dirty as Santana's mouth, towards Jesse St. James and Rachel, who were standing near the stage. Now _that_ was trouble; Kurt could feel it in his bones. He considered getting up and warning Finn, but decided it would be the ultimate in futile gestures; he just had to hope that Finn kept a lid on his temper.

A minor scuffle sounded behind him. He turned just in time to see Sue Sylvester forcibly wheeling Artie out of the room. He frowned; his eye caught Puck standing nearby, a look of panic evident in his features. What that was all about, he didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

After a few minutes of lounging and people watching (it was a twisted sort of fun, mercilessly judging the fashion tastes of high school girls), the band started up again. Kurt stood; Dave was on stage, Finn and Sam behind him. The music went up, and Dave began to sing.


	25. Prom Queen 3: Some Things Were Meant To Be

_Wise men say... only fools rush in..._   
_But I can't help falling in love with you..._

Couples began to gather for the slow dance, but Kurt barely noticed; his breath hitched in his throat. He'd heard Dave sing before, of course, both formally and in casual settings. But this time... there was something different about it. There was some other force, some other emotion, fairly emanating from his pores. Was everyone else in the room blind? Could they not see it?

_Like a river flows... Surely into the sea..._

Dave was practically making love to the microphone stand, in classic crooner tradition. That Kurt would've expected no matter what. But the way his eyes glowed as he scanned the audience, the way his body slowly dipped and rolled... Was he actually looking in Kurt's direction?

_Take my hand...  
Take my whole life too..._

Kurt's emotional maelstrom was interrupted by a sudden sense of wrongness. It wasn't with Dave, it was with... Yes, Finn. He was still "aaah"-ing in the background, but his face was clouded with anger. Kurt's eyes scanned the crowed in the general direction Finn was looking... Yes, there was Rachel and Jesse, swaying gently in each other's arms. Rachel was smiling up at him, Jesse laughing. Kurt could almost see his stepbrother's face growing darker and darker.

_For I can't help falling in love with you..._

Kurt's heart pounded. _God, Dave, please, move just a little bit to the right... Block his view..._ Unfortunately, the relationship between the two had not yet developed telepathy. So when Jesse's face started to slowly descend towards Rachel's lips, Finn exploded.

"Leave her alone!" he fairly screamed, pushing past Dave and nearly diving into the dancers. Kurt knew just enough about football to know that quarterbacks like Finn rarely, if ever, tackled other players; they were there to _be_ tackled (which caused no small amount of anxiety for him and Carole). But you wouldn't have known that from the Sportscenter-perfect tackle Finn performed; it tore Jesse out of Rachel's arms without so much as mussing her hair. They disappeared from Kurt's sight; the only indication of what was going on was the sudden gulf opening amongst the gathered prom-goers, the shrieks of a couple of the girls (including the horrified screeches of Rachel Berry), and the loud, obscenity-filled shouts between the two combatants. Finally, they reappeared, back on their feet, their collars clutched tightly in the hands of Sue Sylvester. She as good as carried them out of the gym as easily as if both of the heavier guys were freshman Cheerios. The excitement over, the dancers dispersed, muttering amongst themselves.

"Shit." Kurt nearly jumped; Dave seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. "You told me about it, but I didn't believe it."

"I'm sorry that overgrown child ruined your song, Dave."

"Ah, don't worry about it. It was almost over, anyway." A look of mild anxiety crossed his face. "Hope you liked what you heard."

Kurt smiled. "I always do."

Dave puffed out a breath. "Thanks." He shook his head. "I wonder what that'll do for his chances at prom king?"

Kurt shrugged. "Who knows? I feel sorry for Quinn. Now she has no date because her 'boyfriend' just tried to beat up the guy dating his ex."

"Shit, I know they're your friends, but..."

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Dave: their lives are somewhat Port Charles-ish, aren't they?"

"Even yours?" Dave asked, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Kurt laid an elegant hand upon his breast. "But of course. The talented diva, driven from those he loves by cruelty, only to triumphantly return. It's classic."

Dave laughed, the hearty sound dying in his throat as he saw Blaine Anderson nearby, looking at them with an odd expression on his face. The look, which was a messy mix of sadness, jealousy, and want, disappeared as soon as Santana tugged his arm. The schooled neutrality returned, with Blaine himself vanishing into the crowd with his date. Something at the sight tugged at Dave, sending an ache into his belly. But then Kurt laughed at something Dave didn't hear, and suddenly, that ache simply... disappeared.

The night progressed with relative peace after the Finn/Jesse imbroglio was cleared up. A couple more songs (with New Directions scrambling, and succeeding admirably, in filling the gap left behind by Finn), a couple more dances (neither of which Kurt and Dave participated in, choosing to instead chat with the other members of New Directions and offer vocal back-ups), and before anyone knew it, Principal Figgins jumped onto the stage.

"It is my pleasure to announce the McKinley High School Junior Prom King and Queen!" The candidates, with one notable exception, all appeared on stage in two gender-segregated lines. They were a mix of types and colors, some of whom Kurt barely knew. "First, our king!" Figgins held up an envelope, pausing for maximum drama. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he ripped it open. If there was any doubt about the outcome in Kurt's mind, it vanished with the expression of sheer delight that appeared on Figgins' face. "Our junior prom king is Blaine Anderson!"

A cheer went up from the crowd as Blaine stepped forward and accepted his crown and scepter from Figgins, who presented them as if he were giving away the Congressional Medal of Honor. Blaine then turned to the assemblage and took a deep bow. Kurt and Dave clapped politely. As the former looked over the crowd, he noticed a knot of football players standing near stage right, on the opposite end of the room. Oddly enough, they were not clapping; all of them, especially Strando, had these strange looks of shock. Kurt frowned, but quickly dismissed his speculations with a shake of the head.

"It's a little sad," Kurt muttered to Dave as Blaine took his seat on his throne. "He's made so many great strides, but he's still wearing a mask... maybe the most important one to remove."

"It's because it's that important that he still has it," Dave replied. "But he's that much closer to taking it off, thanks to you and the others."

 _God, is this the same guy who wanted to out Blaine the first time they met?_ Looking at him now, at his eyes and smile and relaxed shoulders, it hardly seemed possible. As Figgins waved the envelope for prom queen about, Kurt saw Santana's radiant, confident smile as she leaned over and whispered something likely devastating to Quinn. She seemed to think she had this one in the bag, and Kurt couldn't find any reason to disagree.

"This is so exciting!" Figgins exulted as he ripped open the envelope. "Your 2011 junior prom queen is..."

When it was all over, many would wonder just _how_ it happened. Kurt, at least, found out, thanks in major part to a week long reign of terror that descended over McKinley immediately following the prom, an event its instigator called a "Sue-quisition." As it turned out, while Santana did a good job of siphoning votes from her fellow female Bully Whips, it wasn't good enough. She still managed to split those votes, leaving a smaller but more unified bloc intact to make their own write in vote. The counts were still close, very close, but it was enough.

As for Figgins, most agreed that he was so excited and eager to announce his pet student's booty call that he merely read out the name in the envelope without his brain really registering what it said... at least until it was too late.

"Kurt Hummel!"

A gasp ripped out of many parts of the audience. Kurt's knees turned into mush. Blaine went chalk white. Figgins did such a huge gaping double take at the card that Kurt almost found it funny, even under the circumstances. Many students turned towards Kurt with a significant glare. In the shadows cast by the harsh stage lighting, he couldn't see Dave's face, but his clenched, white-knuckled fists bespoke of an urge to punch practically everyone in the room.

The eyes... all the eyes... all on Kurt. The contempt, the triumph, the pity, the horror, and perhaps most awful of all, the neutrality - the ones looking at him as if he were just some interesting museum exhibit, on display for their amusement. Something in him snapped. He turned around and bolted out of the gym.

Striding into the brightly lit halls, near tears, one of the first things he saw was one of Finn and Quinn's campaign posters, hanging bright and in full-color on the wall opposite. _Way to fucking go, universe. Thank you_ so _much for reminding me what a freak I am._ It was a dark thought, of a kind he hadn't had for many many months, but it was back like an old friend. He leaned against a wall, the cold stone caressing his cheek as the tears finally came.

"Kurt!" He heard the doors burst open behind him, and the voice he knew he'd be hearing. He couldn't turn to face Dave; he literally couldn't physically turn his head. "Kurt..." He said nothing more; Kurt wasn't sure if it was because he was waiting for him to say something, or if Dave himself wasn't sure what to say.

When Kurt finally broke the silence, it was with a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "I actually... I actually told Blaine that maybe the school was learning. Maybe they were at least becoming indifferent, if not enlightened. God, what must he be thinking now? His closet must have even more deadbolts on it than ever. Because of me." He laughed, a wet, choked sound. "What an idiot I was. All the Bully Whips did was push it underground, until they got together and found a method that the Bully Whips couldn't punish." He sniffled, still not daring to look Dave in the eyes. He had no idea why he was _this_ upset; hadn't he faced worse and beaten it with a smile? Maybe it was the sheer, disturbing teamwork displayed. Maybe it was the hope, cruelly smashed. Maybe it was the heights his heart had reached earlier that evening, making the fall all the more painful. Maybe it was all of that at once, and more. "And they found the perfect way, too. It has everything: anonymity, plausible deniability, lack of solid paper trail, the force of numbers... I'd almost admire it if it weren't directed at me." Another sob wrenched from his chest. "Nothing changed. Nothing matters. They still... I'm still... What a great big fucking joke."

"This is no joke, Kurt," Dave said grimly. "It's cruel, it's vicious, it's rotten... But one thing it's _not_ is a fucking joke. Jokes are funny. This... this is something else completely."

Kurt vaguely wondered why no one else had come out to see how he was doing by now. Surely _someone_ would have. But the answer came in the form of a mental image, as clear as day: someone (here his mind came up with Finn first, despite his absence) trying to follow Kurt, only to be stopped by Dave, saying "Let me talk to him first." It felt so _right_ that it had to be it. Then the question became why Dave did that, but the answer to that was clear as well. Kurt tried to imagine what it would be like to have Brittany or Artie or Mercedes trying to comfort him at the moment (not that they wouldn't sincerely try, but Kurt knew they would feel awkward, and thus the whole thing would be awkward)... or worse, the whole Glee Club. Sometimes too many cooks _did_ spoil the broth, and if just one person had to be here... he was really glad it was Dave.

And that, he realized, spoke volumes. Sure, Dave was also gay, and had also been through a traumatic experience (compared to which this one was peanuts, honestly), but still... It was a lot more than that. That was undeniable. The very fact alone that Dave knew him well enough to have taken the actions he did in the first place...

"This has nothing to do with you," Dave continued, "and everything to do with them. They're the petty ones who can't be bothered to tolerate someone different than them. They made the choice to be assholes; you didn't make any choice to earn their bullshit. This whole thing proves that there's something wrong with _them_ , not you. The best thing someone can be is themselves, without masks or regrets. And you know the smart, funny, talented, crazy, _sexy_ guy I learned that from?"

Kurt couldn't help but laugh now; he was finally able to turn and face Dave, who was standing much closer than he'd expected... not that it was a bad thing. "No, but he sounds dreamy."

"God, Kurt, the whole pack of them has to be blind or stupid not to see what an incredible person you are. I hate to bring up the whole 'they hate you because they're jealous' cliche, but..."

Kurt laughed again, this time even louder and more genuine. "Yes, please don't. It'll make you sound like my middle school guidance counselor, and I really don't think I could take the mental dissonance that would cause."

Dave stuck his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. "I just realized... we've sort of come full circle. We started out because of problems you were having here, then I had my issues that you helped me with, and now we're back to McKinley."

"Yeah." Kurt chewed his lip. "But one thing's remained constant: your friendship. It's really meant a lot to me."

"Same here. Having someone like you as a friend... I can't imagine what my life would be like without you in it."

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you, Mr. Karofsky?"

"Hey, you're the one who wanted me to be honest and open. I'm just telling it like it is." Dave heaved a sigh. "So..."

"Yeah. What do I do now?"

"That's up to you. If you want to go home, we'll leave right now. Maybe hit a supermarket on the way back, pick up a few gallons of ice cream."

Kurt chuckled. "Sound tempting. But what do you think?"

"Uh... Well, I don't want to tell you what to do..."

"And you're not. I'm consulting you. Asking for your opinion. As a friend."

Dave nodded. "Okay, then, my opinion: there's a lot of people in there who think they've just scored a huge win over you and the Bully Whips. If I were you - and I'm not - I'd want to march right back in there and wipe the smirks off their faces. Show them who's the head bitch in charge, kind of." Dave clapped a hand on Kurt's shoulder. "Seriously, though, I think Anderson and Santana should see there's someone who's brave enough to stand by them too when the chips are down. And you know what Grandpa Murray always says..."

"Stand strong," Kurt finished. He blew a long breath out of his pursed mouth. The decision seemed surprisingly easy to make; without another word, Kurt straightened his lapels and marched right past a grinning Dave and back through the gym doors.

The scene didn't seem to have changed much in the minutes since he left. Coach Sylvester was running about the periphery, snarling and barking at students as she passed. Principal Figgins was still on stage, stammering something about finding vote totals to crown the second place finisher. The other candidates for prom queen had left the stage, leaving a still shell-shocked Blaine slumped on his throne.

At his entrance, the whole room seemed to turn. His enemies looked mildly surprised, his friends stunned but pleased. He strode confidently past them to the stage, the hot glare of spotlights on him as he stood next to Principal Figgins. Kurt snatched the crown from the administrator's loose, sweaty grip and plopped the cheap plastic abomination onto his own head. He then turned to the mike, giving him the perfect angle to see Dave reenter the dance in the back. That single glimpse gave him the renewed confidence to open his mouth and say:

"Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton."

The entire room erupted in clapping and cheers, even the same people who'd voted for him in this little "joke." Kurt aped Blaine's low bow.

"Um..." Principal Figgins began, retaking the microphone, "it is... usually tradition for the king and queen to have their dance, but..."

The band, apparently thinking it was their cue, started up their coronation song. Afterward, Blaine would swear he had no memory of getting up from his throne and walking to Kurt's side - that as far as he knew, one second he was sitting safely, and the next he was just... _there_. Neither boy could see their audience, with the lights in their faces, but what Blaine was imagining was probably worse than anything reality could create.

As the crowd parted, and the two stiffly descended the steps onto the dance floor, Kurt was seized with a wild impulse. Perhaps it was from shock at what had happened - what was still happening. Perhaps it was from some darker thoughts about his (former) tormentor that had lain fallow until that moment. Or perhaps his good intentions merely got mixed up in his mind and somehow made it to his mouth without time to process. Whatever the reason, Kurt would find himself regretting his next words, spoken low to Blaine as they approached the center of the dance floor. "This is your chance," he muttered.

"What?"

"You don't have to be afraid. You're too popular. And the Glee Club would have your back, you know. Even Dave. We'd all support you, no matter what." By now, the two had taken up their positions in the middle of the crowd. Queen turned to king with a sincere look of almost-pleading in his eyes. "Come out. Make a difference."

Blaine stared, his mouth working as if chewing a huge wad of gum. His eyes were wide and sparkling in the dim light. The weight of stares and anticipation seemed to be physical burdens on them both. A look of such pure anguish crossed Blaine's face that Kurt began to regret his words almost immediately. "I..." The wide receiver's voice was low and raspy, much as Kurt's had been in the hall just minutes before. "I can't..."

With that, he turned, pushed through the gathered onlookers, and bolted from the gym. Three pairs of eyes followed him, all in varying degrees of worry, all with the same initial impulse: _I should go after him..._ Then they saw Chris Strando separate from his friends and follow, and all three relaxed. They all had their excuses for staying put:

_If I followed him now, I'd be as good as outing him..._

_If I followed him now, I'd be as good as outing myself right now; then I'd be no good to him..._

_If I followed him now, I'd be leaving Kurt all alone out there..._

All three thought, _Strando is his friend. He's better suited to helping him right now._

All three recognized on some level that these were excuses - maybe good excuses, but nothing more.

There was a moment of suspension in time, when nothing moved, nothing was thought, and nothing was said. Finally, the crowd parted once more, and Dave entered the floor. Once more, he offered his hand. Once more, Kurt took it with gratitude.

"Thanks..." he whispered.

"What, you thought I was going to leave you out here alone? Besides, I've always wanted to dance with royalty." Dave chuckled.

Kurt smiled gratefully. Then the thought struck him: he'd been tapped to sing the prom king and queen's first song with Mercedes - that made sense, since neither of them was on the ballot. So what now? Probably Santana would replace him; she had been "understudying" the song. Though who knew what she...

Kurt gasped. "Oh, no..."

"What?"

"I just remembered what song we were supposed to do for this dance."

"Uh... what song is that?" The familiar, upbeat disco began playing over the speakers. Dave's face immediately snapped to in recognition and not a little horror. "You have _got_ to be shitting me."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Kurt grimaced. A stricken, anxious look came over him. "Do you still want to...?"

"What kinda question is that? To quote one of _your_ movies..." Kurt's eyebrow cocked in curiosity. "'Maybe there won't be marriage...'" Dave's smile grew as he put his arm around Kurt's waist. His voice lowered in a rumbling growl. "'Maybe there won't be sex...'"

Kurt's face lit in recognition. The two recited the rest of the line together:

"'But by God, there _will_ be dancing!'"

_Oh yeah... you can dance..._

Around them, the gathered teenagers started to get into the groovy tune themselves. Dave spun Kurt outward until the two were joined by a single hand at arms' length; he pulled on his partner's hand to spin him back into his arms.

_You can jive..._

With Kurt gathered in his embrace once more, Dave dipped him low, _very_ low, until his head was almost touching the ground. Kurt squealed, holding his crown to his head.

_Having the time of your life..._

As Dave righted him again, Kurt laughingly slapped his tiara onto Dave's head. For just a second, just a moment, they truly felt like royalty.

 _See that girl..._  
Watch that scene...  
Diggin' the dancing queen...

* * *

Blaine stomped out into the parking lot, angrily throwing his crown into the bushes. _Fucking Hummel and his fucking sanctimonious bullshit. Come out and make a fucking difference, my ass. What the fuck right does he have, after what just happened to him...?_

But it wasn't just Kurt Hummel that it had happened to, and that was the part that churned Blaine's stomach most of all. _He_ had been chosen to be Hummel's king. Was it just a coincidence, a voting twist of fate? Possibly. Was it a message, an act of revenge against the fairy's protector and founder of the anti-bullying squad? Possibly.

Did they _know_ somehow?

The very thought turned his gut into ice. All he knew is that he had to get out of there, go somewhere and curl up and...

"Blaine! Hey, Blaine, wait!"

His car in sight, Blaine didn't even turn around. "Go back to Allison, Chris."

"Blaine! We gotta talk!"

"No, we don't, _Strando_."

"Just wait, okay?" At that plea, Blaine turned on his heel, gravel crackling under his shoes. Chris was rapidly approaching, his coat fluttering in the evening breeze. "I swear, man, we had no idea... We all voted for Hudson; you gotta believe me. We didn't want you to..."

"Who was it?" he barked. Strando stopped cold in his tracks a few feet away from his best friend. "Whose fucking idea was this?"

"I don't know that either! It was like a viral thing; it was passed on through texts and Facebook. I have no idea who started it!"

Blaine roared in frustration, fingers tearing at the curls on his head. "Just... just leave me alone!"

"No." Blaine's head shot up in surprise at Chris and his determined voice. That glare of obstinacy... He usually only saw it right before football games. "No, man. Something's wrong, and we're gonna hash it out. Right now."

"No!" Blaine almost screamed, emotions roiling in him once again. "I told you, leave me alone! Go away, you stupid fat ugly _fuck_!" The words were high pitched screeches out of his throat. Panting, he looked back into the eyes of his oldest friend, and was almost physically shaken by what he saw there.

There was no anger in Chris's face, no hurt... There was only despair and worry and... something else. That other emotion had no romance to it, no lust; he knew Chris was straight. But that emotion was one he knew very well, thanks to Santana. In fact, it was the exact same fucking thing he felt for her.

If that wasn't love in Chris Strando's eyes, then the word had no meaning.

"Dude..." Chris whispered. "Please..."

"C-Chris... I..." He was close then. He was so close. "I... I'm..." But as he said to Kurt out on the dance floor, he couldn't. He just couldn't.

As Blaine's voice faded, Chris's grew stronger. "If you don't talk to me, just... just talk to _someone_ , please. I don't know what's wrong, but you gotta let someone help you fix it."

"I don't know if anyone can fix me," Blaine replied in a tiny voice.

"Don't say that!" Chris burst out in what was now genuine anger. "Has your dad been filling your head with shit again?"

Blaine's head snapped up. "Shut up."

"I keep telling you, I see how he treats you. Like you're just a Mini-Him! You don't have to do what he wants, Blaine! He doesn't have to..."

"I said, shut up!" Blaine screamed. "If I don't... If I can't... Then all of this...! Everything I've done...!" _Everything I've done would've had no point._ He was a razor's edge from saying that out loud. But he stopped at the last moment. _I never did have a lot of follow-through_ , he thought bitterly. _Did Dad use to say that to me too...?_ Taking his keys out of his pocket, he unlocked his car, shivering.

"Blaine, I..."

"Take Santana home, okay?" he replied without even turning around. "I'll call you tomorrow." Before Chris could even open his mouth again, Blaine was in the car, slamming the door shut. Chris stepped back as the Acura hurtled out of its space, then sped off in a haze of burning rubber.

Blaine watched in the rearview mirror as Chris's form, his worried face, got smaller and smaller, until it vanished into the night. He choked back a sob. Blaine's trembling fingers went to his pocket and drew out his cell phone. He scrolled through a listing until he hit a particular entry; he hit the dial button. It only rang twice before he heard:

_Hey, this is Dave. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks._

_Of course,_ Blaine thought. Of course he'd turn off his phone while he was... The mental image of Kurt dancing with a guy, brave and proud in front of everyone, stabbed him in the heart with an icicle. He ignored this as he waited for the voice mail tone.

"H-hey," he said into the phone, only vaguely aware of the tremor in his voice. "I... uh... I know you're still at the prom, and I know this isn't exactly the best time to call, but..." He just had to say it. Just had to form the words on his lips and push the air past his vocal chords. Why was it so hard? "Can we talk? I just... I need someone to talk to, and I don't know if Santana... Just... Just call me back, okay?" He thumbed the End Call button and threw his phone into the back seat, sniffling and wiping the moisture from his eyes.

The Acura roared alone down the darkened streets.

* * *

Of course, Kurt and Dave posed for a prom photo just like every other couple. The photographer had shown a hint of hesitancy at first, but one glare from Dave seemed to eliminate that.

Kurt stood tall and proud, and Dave was next to him, arms wrapped around his companion's waist; both were looking at the camera with wide, warm smiles. Kurt ordered extra copies, keeping one wallet-size print with him, prominently displayed in the little windowed pocket where his driver's license was supposed to go.

Despite the events of the night, the humiliation and heartbreak, Kurt knew that no matter what happened between him and Dave in the future, he could always look at this photograph, and he would remember not the pain and the despair, but dancing and laughter and feeling Dave's body so close to his. And he would smile.

As it turned out, he was completely right.


	26. Funeral: Post Mortem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of the denouement; it's all about follow-up, of a kind that really didn't happen in canon. I think it's needed, whether it's Blaine in the bully role or Dave.

It was the story of Kurt's life, really: when he feared and hated (maybe?) Blaine Anderson, the jock was everywhere. But now that he actually wanted to talk to the guy, he was nowhere to be found. Kurt certainly couldn't approach Blaine's friends, or ask around for his number (not even Dave, who still didn't know that Kurt _knew_ ), without looking mighty odd and suspicious. Internet searches failed to turn up anything besides Blaine's Facebook page, which was closed off for non-friends. As for waiting outside his classes, well, Kurt liked to think that he hadn't quite gotten to that level of stalker-hood yet.

The solution came to him one afternoon, slapping him in the face like a wet trout. It was so beautifully simple that he was awed.

First, he needed to get onto Finn's computer. It was password-protected, but since Kurt knew who his stepbrother was dating this week, that was no problem. There (studiously avoiding the folders with the rather _suspicious_ sounding names; not only would it be even more an invasion of privacy than he was already committing, but seriously, ick) he found what he was looking for: a spreadsheet listing all Bully Whips schedules for the next month, meticulously put together by Artie, including designated stand-bys.

Then it was merely an issue of making sure that Finn was... unavailable for his shift on one particular Thursday. Kurt felt a little bad about this, but Finn was, after all, living in the same house, and so was more readily accessible than anyone else. Besides, all Kurt had to do was remember what happened just before prom, and all his reluctance just... melted away.

So it was that Finn charged into the kitchen one Thursday morning in a tizzy. "Mom! Have you seen my Bully Whips suit?"

"No, I don't think so... Did you check the laundry room?"

"It's dry clean only, Carole," Kurt remarked, calmly sipping his juice as he finished the last of his waffle.

Finn groaned, running his fingers through his hair. "I could've sworn it was hanging on my closet door. Shit!" He jumped as Carole whirled around on him. "Sorry! It's just that... it's an expensive suit, and I don't want to ask Anderson for another..."

"I'm sure it'll turn up," Carole said soothingly. "Things you lose always do, especially in that sty you call a room. Now hurry up, you'll be late for school."

"But without the suit, I can't go on Bully Whips duty! Santana keeps saying we have an image to maintain, and that the suits set us apart for kids who're looking for help..."

"You have back-ups, don't you? They'll just have to step in for today. Better get going."

Finn sighed dramatically and whipped out his cell phone to call in his inability to do his shift. Kurt hid a smirk behind his napkin; the scheme had worked perfectly. He'd simply return Finn's suit that evening (probably slip it behind the laundry basket) and no one would suspect a thing. Now all he had to do was wait.

And he didn't have to wait long; Blaine Anderson was waiting for him outside his homeroom. His eyes were, of course, hidden by his sunglasses, but his pursed lips and descending eyebrows spoke of great discomfort. If there'd been any doubt in Kurt's mind before that Blaine had been deliberately avoiding any contact with him, it was gone now. "Let's go," he said in a short, snippy tone, practically running off before Kurt had a chance to follow. As it was he had to increase his pace to keep up with Blaine's long strides.

Finally, Kurt got to ask the question he needed to ask. "Are you all right?"

"What do you care?" Blaine snapped.

"Do you think I enjoy watching people suffer?"

"People who stalked you and threatened you and made you change schools to escape them? Hell, yes. I would."

"I hate to disappoint you, but you're wrong. It's not in my nature." Kurt hadn't intended for his voice to take such a lofty tone, but it did. He consciously dialed it back as he continued. "This may be hard for you to believe, but I meant what I said before. You don't have to continue to beat yourself up for anything you did to me. You've demonstrated sincerity, and I've moved past it."

"Really. Without any consequences?"

Kurt frowned, puzzled. "Consequences?"

"Yeah, for me. For anything I did for you. Even if Figgins wanted to suspend me or something now, you know what my dad would do. I... I'm gonna get away with it, Kurt. Maybe my rep around here took a hit..." He shuddered, remembering the prom. "But that's it. I'm not going to be punished."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Well, what do you want me to do? Send you into the Pit of Despair? Demand you self-flagellate yourself with a branch or something?"

Blaine reached under his sunglasses to rub his eyes. "No, but...! How can you stand it? How can you stand... me...? With everything I've done, I shouldn't be getting away with it."

"I don't think it's an absolute requirement for you to be punished to make up for what you did. If you feel a need to balance the scales, continue with the Bully Whips and help me with the GSA. That way enough good comes out of all the darkness to override it. Though personally, I find the concept of karma just as ridiculous and terrifying as God. Imagine deserving every bad thing that happens to you because of something you did, especially in a past life." Kurt sped up and stepped in front of Blaine, halting the other boy in his tracks. Around them, students flocked to their classes, but for all Kurt and Blaine knew, they could've been all alone in their little bubble, the only two people on Earth. "If you don't believe that I can actually have concern for your well-being, that's fine. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry for pressuring you to, well, you know..."

"Oh, God, you too?" Blaine laughed, a sharp, bitter, slightly hysterical sound. " _You're_ saying sorry to _me_?"

"I am. And I'm also sorry that I didn't do anything to try to help you at the prom. I'm glad Strando was there, but I should've at least tried to..."

"Goddammit, Hummel, can you stop being so fucking noble for two minutes? I refuse to accept any apologies from you. I'd be the hugest hypocrite in the world..."

Kurt laughed. "Me? Noble? I thought you knew how big a bitch I am. Believe me, I am no angel." His face softened. "Seriously, though, you really needed someone after what happened. I'm sorry it wasn't me, and I hope you had someone."

Blaine nodded slowly. "Yeah. I did..."

* * *

_The Sunday after the prom..._

Blaine stirred, blinking the sleep and sun back from his eyes. Groggily, he turned towards his bedside alarm clock. It was almost eleven o'clock, and he still didn't feel like getting up.

He was splayed across his bed, still dressed in his prom suit, with only his tie loosened around his neck. He took this in with only a slight raise of the head, which quickly settled back onto the bed. It seemed that his parents were abiding by his request for a little post-prom alone time; that at least was a good sign, though he'd never expected the _reason_ he would be so grateful.

Blaine rubbed his eyes as they drifted shut once more. Maybe he'd just stay in bed until dinnertime. Or school on Monday. Or next year...

Naturally, that was the exact moment the door flew open and Santana breezed in. Sometimes Blaine could swear she had some kind of demonic radar that told her just when people were at their fucking lowest. "God, you're still in bed? I didn't think you'd gotten any of that spiked punch." She sat heavily down next to him, sending the bed rippling under his back.

"Okay, that does it. I have to ask: how the fuck do you get into this house without me knowing?"

Santana shrugged. "Marisol lets me in. I think she likes that a fellow Latina has the boss's son by the balls." Her eyes shifted up and down his still form. "You look like shit."

"Gee, thanks, Ms. Prom Queen. Oh, wait! You didn't win, did you?"

To Blaine's mild surprise, Santana's face didn't so much as twitch; she almost seemed to have been expecting the jab. "No, I didn't. But at least the actual Queen got her dance... Oh, wait!" Blaine could feel his face fall; this time, Santana's mouth did twitch - just a tiny tremor, but to Blaine, it was as obvious as if she'd burst out into tears. She patted his hair condescendingly. "Oh, don't worry your pretty little gay head off. Kurt is naive and stupidly forgiving; I'm sure he doesn't hold it against you. Especially since his boyfriend stepped in." Blaine moaned at this, turning over and burying his face in his pillow. He heard Santana sigh. "Besides, you weren't the only coward in that room." There was a brief silence. "I should've made sure you were okay. But I was too scared..."

"I know." His voice was almost comically muffled. "It's all right. I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You are not. That's why I'm here. You're going to get dressed, and we're going out."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. Whatever we drive by. Miniature golf. Who the fuck knows. We'll eat at that diner on 2nd. I'll even let you share my chocolate milkshake."

Blaine lifted his face from the pillow and turned onto his side, facing Santana. "Wow, how generous. You sure you don't have a fever, San?"

"No. But what I do have is gas. That shit-tastic buffet last night is still going through me. I'm gonna use your bathroom. You get dressed." She rose and headed towards the connected bathroom. "And you'd better be fully clothed when I get out, or I'll start throwing up, and give your _maids_ all that extra work."

Blaine groaned. "Just go, before your farts kill me." The bathroom door slammed. He rubbed his forehead and finally rose into a sitting position, a little dizzy at the rush of blood. He smacked his dry mouth and began loosening his collar when his cell phone burst out into "Loser," his standard ringtone for anyone not on his friendly contact list. He picked it up, and only barely registered the number before he flipped it open. "Hello?" he burst out, wincing an instant later at his pathetic eagerness.

"Hey." Dave Karofsky's voice rumbled on the other end. "Sorry I didn't call before; I'm still at... Uh..."

"Kurt's place?" Blaine finished dryly.

"Uh... Yeah." The voice turned deep in embarrassment. "We're getting ready for brunch. Ku- um, he's still figuring out what to wear, and Finn's still half asleep, so I thought I'd return your call." The silence on both ends of the line seemed to braid together, weaving into some glorious, ironic pattern. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up." Blaine couldn't keep the snarl out of his voice; he could almost feel old patterns starting to fall into place. He took a moment, eyes closed, to gather himself before he continued. "I mean, don't apologize. You had more important things to worry about."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Say you're not as important as others."

"You don't owe me a thing. No one does."

"That doesn't matter. Look, we shouldn't be picking and choosing who deserves to be protected from bullying and harassment any more than we should be choosing who gets to have civil rights. It's all or nothing."

Blaine grimaced. "I suppose you got that from one of those gay pamphlets like Ms. Pillsbury gives out?"

"GSA," Dave replied. "Anyway, I think you were bullied at the prom, just as much as Kurt was. You deserved to have someone stick up for you."

"I did. My friend Chris..."

"He had nothing to do with it?"

"No. And I believe him." Blaine took a glance at the bathroom door; what the fuck was taking Santana so long? "Just... don't start apologizing to me, okay, Karofsky?"

"Why not, when it needs to be done? It has nothing to do with deserving. Apologizing for things you've done wrong should be all or nothing too." Dave chuckled. "If it makes you feel better, you can think of it as me proving who the better man is."

Blaine laughed, a genuine belly laugh. "Good idea."

"So... are you okay?"

"Honestly? No. But... Santana came over so, at least I'll be distracted. Maybe later I'll be more okay. I... I just don't know..."

"Oh. Do you need to go?"

"Not yet. But soon." Blaine shook his head; he couldn't believe the next few words were actually about to leave his mouth. "I'm really glad you called."

"No problem. Just don't expect me to ask you out for a pity date or anything."

"You'll _never_ have to worry about me wanting _that_ , you overgrown gorilla."

"Like you could do any better, you smarmy weasel."

This time, it was their laughter that blended together. "Just so you know," Blaine said when their mirth had died down, "this is _not_ some kind of weird form of sexual tension. At least not on my end. I'd understand if it was on yours, because I'm that hot, but..."

Dave's voice lost the laughter, becoming oddly gentle. "Hey, I get it. It's a relief, isn't it? To be able to talk to someone who _knows_? And not have to hide?"

"Yeah," Blaine whispered. "It really fucking is."

"Well, as you come out, you'll find more and more of those people. The GSA will really help you too."

Thinking about the GSA, thinking about who he'd have to work with to make that happen... Blaine felt his face flush; he rubbed the back of his neck. "I really should get going. Gotta get dressed before Santana gets out of the bathroom..."

"Oh, sure. We're almost ready for brunch on this end anyway." There was a brief silence; Blaine could hear someone's - probably Mr. Hummel's - heavy footsteps in the background. "Call back any time you feel like it, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll think about it."

"Talk to you later."

"Yeah." The line went dead. Blaine snapped his phone shut, staring at it for a moment. Then he shook his head again and started unbuttoning his dress shirt. Minutes later, he'd barely gotten the last of his more casual outfit on when Santana finally emerged from the bathroom. "Shit, I thought you'd died in there."

"So sue me, your bathroom's fucking sweet. It's like Willy Wonka's factory. I could live in it, I swear." She looked him over. "You're decent. Good. Let's go; I'm starving now."

"San?" The one little word stopped her dead. She immediately turned back to Blaine, who was just standing there, a blank look on his face. "Thanks for coming over. I... I know you had better things to do than worry about a shithead like me, and I'm sorry I made you worry, and..."

Santana barked a loud, sharp laugh. "Oh, isn't that _cute_ ; you actually think _you_ can _make_ me do something I don't want to do." Before Blaine could fully process that statement, she was patting him on the cheek. "Don't worry, short, pale, and handsome. I'm stuck with you. You're like smoking or scratching my ass in public - a bad habit I can't seem to fucking break."

"Yeah? What about for Brittany?"

A shadow passed over her face. "That's... not happening. Not yet. But when it does... Who says I can't have you too? Hell, maybe she or I can get a strap-on and we can get some kind of threesome shit going."

That did it. Blaine fell face-forward back onto his bed, shaking with hysterical laughter. To Santana's credit, she didn't do or say a thing; she just watched until finally, after what felt like many long minutes, the laughter died down. His sides aching, his lungs dying for breath, Blaine staggered unsteadily to his feet. "Oh... Oh, God, don't even say... Oh, God..."

"Are you done, Anderson?"

Blaine cleared his throat, finally managing to get himself upright. He wiped the tears from his eyes. "Y-yeah, I am."

"Good. Maybe at the diner, we can start planning our tragic, public break-up. We'll need it eventually." Pursing her lips in thought, she started towards the door. "What do you think: you cheating on me? Me cheating on you? Both of us cheating on each other? Or maybe we can just do it through Facebook or something. Hmm. We'll have to consult Brittany on this." She paused and turned back towards him. "Well? Are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there staring like Finn at a 4th grade math quiz?"

"You're beautiful, you know that?" His voice was low, not quite awed, but just shades away.

"Tell me something I don't know." Santana snorted. "Shit, you really must be feeling low if you're gushing like that. Come on, we need to get you back to your usual arrogant asshole self before you start making me nauseous."

Blaine dutifully followed his girlfriend out of the room. He felt a lot of things: nervousness, sadness, not a little worthlessness. But one thing he did not feel was alone. And damn if that didn't make all the difference.

* * *

Kurt nodded. "Good. I'm glad." He turned and continued down the hall towards his class, Blaine keeping pace at his side. "So I hear Santana's going to continue with the Bully Whips, even with her little scheme failing."

"Actually, yeah. I'm as surprised as you probably are, but she really seems to be committed to it now. Of course, she says it's because she wants to stay close to me and my credit card, but I think she loves being something more to others than just a bitch who sleeps around." Blaine's voice turned low and conspiratorial. "Don't tell her I said she actually wanted to help people, though. I like my balls attached to my body."

Kurt smirked. "Your secret's safe with me." Finally, they arrived at the Biology lab. "Well, there are other things we need to discuss, but we can do that later. We have the summer to start putting together the GSA, and... What's the matter?" Blaine's face had suddenly turned away, and he was rubbing the back of his head nervously.

"I... I'm not sure how much I'm going to be around during the summer. My brother..."

"You have a brother?"

Blaine frowned; had he really not mentioned or thought of Cooper in that long a time? "Yeah. He's way older than me, though. Anyway, he found me a summer study program abroad, and... I think I want to take it. I feel like I need to get out of Lima. See something outside McKinley. Think things through."

"That actually sounds like a wonderful idea. Where would you be going?"

"Paris."

"Ah, France! _J'approuve._ " Kurt cocked his head slightly. "We can catch up when you return. You take all the time you need."

Blaine sniffed; Kurt had the feeling that his sunglasses were currently hiding more than his eyes. "Thanks... Thank you so much, Kurt..."

Kurt patted Blaine's forearm. "Think nothing of it." The hallway bell trilled out a warning; both boys sent annoyed looks in its direction. "I have to go."

"Yeah. I'll see you after class for History." Kurt nodded; Blaine watched as he vanished into the classroom. For a long moment, Blaine stood there, staring. His lips moved silently, forming words that he wouldn't have dared even think just a few months ago, let alone speak, expressing feelings that... He shook his head violently. "Shit." He stalked away, his footsteps beating a staccato echo across the linoleum floors.

* * *

"New York. Man." Dave grinned as he carefully placed Kurt's coffee in front of him and sat down. "I wish I could be there with you guys; it's going to be a blast."

"I know, me too." Kurt sipped at his drink delicately. "It's just hard to think of right now, with Coach Sylvester's sister's funeral..."

Dave's face turned pensive at the reminder. "Yeah... It's really nice of you guys to be doing this for her." He paused. "Are you sure she didn't threaten you or anything...?"

"I keep telling you, we volunteered of our own free will! Honestly, Dave, she's an actual human being, not Satan incarnate!"

Dave held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I believe you. But you can't blame me; I mean, I'd have thought you guys would be rehearsing 24/7 with Nationals next week..." He trailed off, examining Kurt's expression with a squint.

Kurt shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

"I know that look..."

Kurt tried to erase "that look," whatever it was, underneath a blanket of neutrality, but it just caused Dave's expression to deepen. "I don't have a look."

Dave's eyes widened. "Holy shit. You guys don't even have a set list yet, do you?"

 _How does he_ do _that?_ Kurt boggled. "Umm... No?"

"Holy hell, Kurt! When you said you guys flew by the seat of your pants, I didn't think you'd be cutting it this close!" Dave was starting to get agitated; it was as though he'd forgotten he wasn't actually a member of New Directions and wasn't actually going to Nationals. He got his breathing under control with obvious effort. "Okay, okay... No need to panic..."

"Indeed," Kurt said, unable to keep a little dryness out of his voice.

"It's still possible to have something before you guys get there... If you want me to help, I can be your sounding board for your ideas..."

Kurt breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God, I thought you'd never ask." He gripped Dave's hands in sheer gratitude; such were their emotions, and their relationship at that point, that neither boy thought about the gesture for even a second. "I would really, really appreciate your help, David. Jesse St. James is completely useless, and Mr. Schue seems distracted, and..."

"It'll be fine, Kurt," Dave interrupted in his most soothing tone. "Why don't you tell me what you guys have and I'll give my opinion from there?"

For the next hour and a half, talk about lyrics, judge expectations, dance moves, and prep-cramming breezed over the table. Every minute that passed made Kurt feel better, about Nationals and... a lot of other things. They parted with their usual warm hug, but... was it just his imagination, or did they both seem to linger in it a little longer each time?

Kurt pushed the thoughts from his mind. There would be plenty of time for that later. What mattered was Nationals. It was time to put on the game face, kick ass, and take names. For McKinley. For his friends. For himself. For Dave.

 _Funny_ , he thought, _how well all those elements seem to go together in my mind._

Then: _Okay, focus. Nationals. We can do this. We can win this._

But even on the plane to JFK-LaGuardia (not knowing how lucky he was not to be headed for Tripoli International), his mind couldn't help but linger on the things that somehow, sometimes seemed even more important than Nationals.


	27. New York: The Past is Prologue

Dave Karofsky wasn't sure he'd said "you're kidding" that many times in his life. He stared his best friend in the face, daring him, almost _begging_ him, to start laughing and say, "no, that really didn't happen, I was joking."

Instead, Kurt Hummel merely nodded solemnly. "Sadly, it happened. I was there."

"I'm sorry you guys didn't make it, Kurt."

"I know. But if nothing else, it was a learning experience, to put it mildly. And it was... interesting."

"I suppose that's one word for it. And 11th place... You almost had it."

"Yeah... I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse."

The dog days of summer were rapidly approaching, so even in the late afternoon, it was still sunny and warm. When the plane first got in from New York, Kurt had turned on his cell phone. The first thing he saw was a message from Dave reading "Since I couldn't be at the airport..." and a picture attachment icon. Kurt had opened it, and smiled: it was a photo of Dave holding up a hand lettered sign saying "WELCOME HOME KURT AND NEW DIRECTIONS!" Thus, Kurt had decided to drive up to Westerville to meet Dave instead of the other way around; the two sat on a stone bench under a tree in the Dalton Academy main quad, each with a plastic bottle of soda to ward off the heat. The world of the exclusive prep school passed them by as they locked themselves deep into their conversation, into Kurt's memories of New York.

"Well, don't worry about it," Dave said, sticking out his legs out of the shadows so they'd be warmed by the sunshine. "You'll be back on Broadway before you know it. And there'll be actual people in the audience."

"That's sweet of you." Kurt's breath hitched in his lungs; it was a reminder of a topic he'd agonized over the entire plane ride back. He couldn't even bring himself to enjoy all those first-class perks (though he doubted he'd ever fly again without halfway expecting a footrest). Still, looking at Dave now, his face dappled by small blobs of light, his Dalton blazer unbuttoned and hanging loose around his waist, his tie crooked in a way that was almost charming all on its own, he found his brain and his mouth leaping ahead with the eagerness of a puppy. "You know... I was thinking about that. My future. In New York. And... What I wanted out of it." He swallowed. "Who I wanted."

"Oh yeah?" Dave's voice was casual, but Kurt's mind honed in on the slight note of hoarseness in it. _Ah, the wonders of a pair of trained ears..._

"Yeah. I was telling Rachel that... I can't really imagine life in New York... without you in it too."

Dave coughed suddenly, but his eyes remained surprisingly focused on Kurt. "I... I'm flattered. Thanks." His red face told _that_ tale very clearly without words. "But... are you sure that...?"

"It doesn't have to be about _that_. Even with everything else, you've been a good friend to me. New York is a big place; I could use all the friends I can get."

Dave nodded firmly. "Sure. Yeah. I completely agree."

"But at the same time..." Dave nearly jumped at Kurt actually continuing. "Summer's coming. A lot can happen in three months..."

"It can?" Dave squeaked. _Fuck, I didn't know I could_ make _that kind of s_ _ound..._

"I... I've been thinking about this. A lot." _And even that_ , Kurt thought, _is an understatement._ "And... we could try it out. Being... together, I mean. A kind of a... probationary relationship?"

Despite everything, Dave couldn't help but laugh. "That makes you sound like my parole officer."

"There is literally nothing I can say to that that won't sound perverted." Kurt chuckled. "Seriously, though... It's going to be our last year of high school together. I figure, why not take a chance? Even if it doesn't work out, we've been through worse." Both winced at the reminder, but Kurt pushed on regardless. "Why not just... take it slow and see where it goes?"

There were all sorts of questions practically tickling Dave's lips. He wanted to make absolutely sure that Kurt knew what he was getting into, that he was serious, that he was actually really ready. But most of all, one little word: _why_? Did Kurt actually trust him, after everything that happened?

 _Trust_. There was that word again. This really was about trust, wasn't it, no matter how it'd come about?

They both had to learn how to do that if anything was going to happen between them.

"Okay," Dave finally said. "Let's take it slow and see where it goes."

Kurt nodded, as if he'd expected the reply. That only deepened Dave's lingering suspicions; how much did he really know? But then Kurt broke out into a wide smile, and Dave's melting heart drove out every other thought. "Good. Then I have a few suggestions for a first date..."

"A few?" Dave chuckled. "If I know you, it's more like a laundry list..."

"And what if it is? I have certain expectations for a first date; I want memories that'll last a lifetime."

"If you make me too nervous, I'm just gonna vomit all over you. How's that for memories that'll last a lifetime?"

Kurt faux-gagged. "Quiet, you!"

Their laughter attracted the curious glances of a few passing Daltonites, but those students quickly hurried along, wrapped up in their own lives. Dave's mirth finally wore itself out with a sigh. "You know, you're just lucky that NYU was on my college list already, or we'd both be up shit creek."

"I suppose. But we would've figured something out regardless. Besides, I figured you'd be happy to go to New York already." Kurt couldn't help but chuckle at Dave's confused expression. "Well, don't the Rangers need all the help they can get?"

"Wow," Dave said after a long, gaping second. "You're actually learning." He sniffled loudly, wiping away a non-existent tear. "I'm so proud. My little student's growing up!"

"Oh, shut up! It really is a fascinating sport, once you get into it. The mix of grace and violence is really interesting, and I... What?"

Dave was staring at Kurt, who couldn't help but squirm a little under the emotions in that gaze. "I love you," he said.

Kurt knew at once that the declaration had absolutely nothing to do with any "probationary relationship"; indeed, it had nothing to do with romance or sex or anything so trite. It was just a simple statement of longstanding fact, the kind of truth that went beyond insufficient ideas like "friendship" or irrelevancies like "sexuality." With something like that, there really was only one response: more truth. "I love you too." He sighed, raising his face towards the blue, cloud-wisped sky. "You know... Despite all the bumps... I've been to Nationals, McKinley is safer, I'm starting a GSA next year, I found a true friend..." He turned to Dave, who already had a sheepish smile on his face. "It's been a pretty good year for Kurt Hummel."

"For both of us," Dave grinned. "It's gonna be one hell of a summer."

"That it is."

"It'll be interesting to see where it goes."

"It will. Just so you know, I don't have any expectations. But even if we return to just what we have now... that wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

"No, it wouldn't." Dave raised his bottle of soda. "To baby steps?"

Kurt smiled and "clinked" his Diet Coke against Dave's Sprite. "To baby steps."

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Wow. Y'know, despite the the troubles I had along the way, this really turned out a lot better than I thought it would. And I get the sense that I've gotten a pretty big reaction from this for a first-timer (this being my very first big scale Internet fanfic).
> 
> I already started a sequel, one that encompasses S3. It's being updated on that OTHER fanfic site, but I'll port it over here eventually.
> 
> There's nothing else to really say but to repeat my thanks. There's something about the immediacy of "publishing" on the Internet that I hadn't really experienced to its fullest before, and now I have. And it's been pretty cool. :)


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